


Wolf

by Truffle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also masturbation, And then there will butt lovin, Dirty Dreams, Frottage, Honest, I should not be allowed to write when I'm this sleep deprived and have had so much sugar, It's five in the damn morning I don't know, M/M, Mild Homophobic Language, One day I will stop skipping over the sexy times, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, Work In Progress, and stuff, eventually, mentions of abuse, more tags to add later, self doubt, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 73,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truffle/pseuds/Truffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?"</p><p>Music, Shakespeare, teenage angst, friendships, forbidden love... what more could you want?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Pound Twenty

**Author's Note:**

> A quick Johniarty fic I've had bouncing around in my head for ages that, upon getting to the actual putting it down on paper stage, turned out to be not quite so quick.  
> First work I'm posting, any and all comments will given good and loving homes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART ONE: John Watson. Seventeen years old and just sort of... ordinary, really.

John surveyed himself in the mirror, rolling his shoulders back and forth. He'd already checked, but he had to be _sure_. Had to be sure the collar of his shirt sat high enough to cover the bruise that was blossoming on his clavicle. He rolled his shoulders this way and that one more time before deciding it was good enough. It would have to be good enough; he was running late already, he'd be lucky if he got to school in time for the second bell. He tossed his bag across his shoulders and hurried downstairs, not bothering to look into the door to the kitchen and dining room as he passed it in the hallway. His sister would be gone for work already, and if his parents were about they would only delay him further. He shut the front door behind himself just a little too hard and jogged to school, relaxing a little when he reached the gates to find students still milling around everywhere. He bypassed groups of people talking and laughing and wasting time, weaving through the bodies until he reached the common room his own friends hung out in during breaks. "Hey," he said as he slid into a seat amongst them, intentionally leaving a significant space between himself and his most recent ex. She was a small girl, slim and quiet looking, with big dark eyes. She was anything but quiet, however, and in the end it was her incessant nagging at three times the volume of John's own voice that had driven him away. He'd been very nice about it, and she hadn't been surprised. Nobody expected to stick with John for long. Three Continents Watson, they called him; because back when he'd first opened his eyes to puberty and sexuality, three girls - all from different countries originally, an English girl, and American and an Australian - had all been chasing after him at once. It was a thoroughly stupid nickname, but he'd never quite been able to shake it. And it had only gotten more popular as the years went on and John never really hung around with one girl for too long.  
"Hi mate," Mike greeted cheerfully, clapping John on the shoulder in his standard familiar gesture. "Have a good night?" he asked.  
"Yeah, not bad," John flat out lied, his usual easy mask slipping into place without a thought. "You?"  
Mike immediately launched into some long winded, asinine story about how his mum did this that and the other, nagged him about homework and a myriad of other things, no doubt, the usual yarn he spun before class. John never really listened, just tuned in occasionally so he'd know when to nod or smile. In his head he was going through his coursework for his second period class, last minute mental cramming for the test he had. It wasn't long before Mike's story was interrupted by the shrill cry of the bell and they disbanded, heading off in their separate directions to class. John was thankful not to share a class with Mike first period, because it meant he didn't have to go on pretending to be interested in his story. He did, however, have to endure the long, silent stare of Chris, a guy he'd known since primary and had kissed three times several years ago when he was just beginning to think he might be into blokes a little bit, too. The first was shy and nervous in the back corner of the library, hidden away in the rows of books. The second was deeper, more exploratory, in Chris' living room as their hands had wandered curiously over one another's bodies. And the third had been final. Tinged with disappointment when John had said he just didn't want to get involved with such a long time friend. In honesty he was never that close to Chris, he just needed an excuse. Because while fooling around a little with him had proven to John that he did indeed fancy men, he simply did not find himself attracted to Chris specifically. It hadn't really meant a whole lot of anything to John, but apparently it had to Chris. Because even now, years later, whenever he and John were alone together he would stare at him as if trying to rewrite his coding, trying to make John want him back again. It made John's gut churn guiltily. He kept his eyes averted from the other boy, looking straight ahead as they made their way to their first class. 

John emerged from his second period test relieved, and quietly confident that he'd done okay in it. He worked hard in that class - every class, really - and he'd been studying for well over a week. The questions hadn't seemed unbearably difficult, and he took that as a good sign that he'd prepared well enough. He made his way back to the common room, the first to arrive. Slumping down in one of the more comfy chairs John pulled out a text book and started to flick through it. Charlie was the next to turn up, tossing John an apple out of her bag without a word. He didn't react as he caught it, and she didn't expect him to. It was an unwritten agreement between them, she'd bring two of whatever she brought for morning tea, and John would accept it without saying anything. Because John was always hungry, and Charlie always had food. They sat eating their apples and reading until the rest of their friends turned up and a conversation picked up.  
"I don't want to go to my physics test next period," Haley whined, holding a thin sheaf of notes in her hand but not looking at them.  
"Just did it," John told her, looking up from his Chemistry book. "It's not bad, you'll be fine," he assured her, even though they both knew that Haley would barely have studied. She hated physics, and she was only doing it because her parents made her. She didn't try any harder than she would need to to get a pass mark. She said that when she didn't get the 95% plus mark her parents expected of her, there was a chance they'd finally get that she just wasn't cut out for sciences.  
"Oh, what's in it?" she asked hopefully, getting up and moving over to John, shuffling in between him and Charlie.  
"Pass me your notes and I'll highlight what you need to look at," he said grudgingly, pulling a highlighter out of his bag. As he went through Haley's notes Liam started some chatter about the girl he'd been hitting on for the past week or so. "...She actually kind of giggled and did that thing girls do with their eyelashes, that fluttery thing. That's a good sign, right?"  
"Liam, you're eighteen years old," John said calmly, not looking up from what he was doing. "If you don't know by now what is and isn't a good sign when it comes to girls, you're doomed."  
Liam laughed and mock-bowed to John. "Teach me your ways, oh great and powerful sex god!" he teased. John chuckled and handed Haley back her notes. He studied Liam for a long moment before shaking his head. "Nah. Figure it's more entertainment to leave you to it and watch you flounder," he teased back, returning his attention to his text book. 

Two more lessons passed, John forgetting about his bruised ribs in the second of which - drama - as he did a forward roll off the stage and having to hide a wince and a hiss of pain under a mock battle cry. Once they were released from class John fled to the nearest bathroom to hold some damp paper towels to his ribs, easing the pain in them a little. Then it was lunchtime and Haley was whinging to anyone but John about how hard the physics test was, saying it was only supposed to be an introductory test, why would they make it nigh on impossible, etcetera, etcetera. John ignored her entirely, nibbling unenthusiastically at the dry, meagre half a sandwich he had left over from the day before. He'd intentionally not eaten it yesterday, knowing it was all he'd have today. It wasn't so good any more, but it was something. He ate it slowly, tricking his stomach into thinking there was more than there was. "That looks like shit," Ray piped up from beside him. "Here, mum gave me two." He was offering John a baked potato, cold but adorned with cheese and flecks of ham, wrapped in foil. "Thanks mate, but I'm f-" John began, but Ray pushed it closer to him. "Come on man. I've got curry as well, don't make me eat it by myself." John gave in, accepting the potato gratefully. They didn't talk about it, his friends; the didn't talk about the way John never seemed to keep any weight he put on, the way he rarely ever had lunch at school and always had a hungry, hollow look to his eyes. The didn't talk about the bruises or the cuts or the burn marks that appeared on his skin, that peeked out from sleeves and collars or decorated lips and cheeks and eyebrows. They didn't talk about it and John was grateful for it, because he didn't like to lie to them, but he knew he would if they asked. He couldn't tell them, he couldn't tell anyone. He didn't want anyone to think him weak for asking for help. He was seventeen, and that was close enough to being a man that he could look after himself. John took his time over the baked potato as well, relishing in the taste, in the way it actually made him feel like he had something in his belly. Such a good feeling that, comforting, something people took for granted until they didn't have it. It was a rare treat for John. 

"Oi, who's in my English class last period today? John right, and Charlie and Mike?" Peter said loudly, interrupting a squabble - no doubt on purpose - that Haley and Finn had started up.  
"And Mary," John reminded him, lifting his head from the drawing he was looking at that one of the others had done. "Why?" He was glad from a reprieve from those two; if it wasn't their near constant bickering the rest of them had to suffer through, it was their overly enthusiastic snogging.  
"Well, today's the day we get the new teacher, right?" Peter asked. "Mrs McLeod had her farewell party yesterday, I thought."  
John considered, but before he could be certain Charlie piped up. "Yeah, today's new blood," she agreed. "I hope they're more to look at than Mrs McLeod was."  
Peter chuckled, then cringed. "Yeah, that weird boil thing she had going on was not exactly a selling point..."  
Mike made an over exaggerated gagging noise. "I hope we get some hot young chick, preferably a red head - no offence, Charlie."  
"None taken, Mike - I hope we get some hot young chick as well, though I'm more into my brunettes," Charlie quipped back without a pause. Peter laughed, and John's eyes went to Sally, his slight ex. She was quickly turning her usual shade of alarmed puce, as she did whenever anyone brought up anything that she thought went against her interpretation of the teachings of Christianity. John thought that was just stupid, though he wouldn't outright say as much. He was faithful himself, he believed in God and prayed to Him occasionally - even though a lot of the time he was fairly certain the big man must have forsaken or forgotten him - but he didn't use it as an excuse to judge anyone. Wouldn't have done even if he himself weren't a little bit bent, his sister wasn't gay, some of his close friends not Muslim or Jewish or Atheist. He stared at her until she stopped looking like she was about to launch into a tirade. She started to breathe normally again, and slowly her normal colouring returned.  
"Bet you it's some minging old bloke with a beer gut and a weird beard," Finn cut in, craning his neck to see the others around Haley, who was now sitting in his lap.  
"How much do you bet?" John asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Finn fumbled through his pockets. "Two pound twenty."  
"Alright. Two pound twenty that the new English teacher isn't some minging old bloke with a gut and weird beard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this at five in the morning and I haven't slept yet so I'm just going to leave it and edit when I can think.  
> Now sort of edited!


	2. Mind Over Matter

Bloke he was. Minging and old he was not. Neither did he have a gut nor a beard of any description. John was sitting at his desk near the front of the class and watching as their new teacher came into the room, walked to the desk and smiled at them all. John knew he ought to be feeling smug about winning the bet - not that two pounds and twenty pence would get him much of anything at all, but that was beside the point - but he was too distracted. Distracted by the way the new teacher's body moved like a fluid rather than a solid. Distracted by the way his smile made him look oddly canine; like a wolf gazing out at them, surveying his prey. And, most of all, distracted by how, suddenly and wholly, the new teacher attracted him. He was easily gorgeous, with a high forehead and dark eyes, hair slicked back with something wet-look. Those eyes could see everything, and did, John was certain. Could see the kid at the back of the class whose eyes were glassy from the spliff he'd smoked between fifth and sixth period. Could see the nervous jitter in the hand of the boy going on a date that evening. Could see right through John's own shirt to the deepening bruise on his collarbone, the purple spreading over his ribs. John shifted a little in his seat, eyes flicking to Charlie, sitting to his right. She was watching the man patiently, waiting for him to introduce himself. She hadn't noticed him the way John had. He glanced to his other side, to where Peter was sitting, doodling in the back cover of his English book. He wasn't even looking at their new teacher. John swallowed hard, making sure his expression was neutral before looking back up at the wolf.  
"Hello everyone," he said finally, and John grit his teeth silently. No, he was not going to find his teacher attractive, especially not his voice, he simply was _not_.  
"My name's Mr M, I'm going to be replacing Mrs McLeod. If you ever have any questions just raise your hand, I'll be happy to answer them. Respect me and I will respect you. Simple, really," the new teacher said, pushing his hands into the pocket of his suit jacket. Did he _have_ to wear suits? Really? None of the other teachers wore suits - well, okay, a couple did. But none of them were so well tailored, none of them looked so damn _edible_ in them. John cleared the thoughts from his head forcefully, trying to focus on the lesson Mr M was no doubt about to give them, rather than Mr M himself. It would not serve him well to fancy a teacher. It would only lead to painful pining on his part and embarrassment if Mr M should ever find out. So he refused to let it happen. He just wouldn't.  
"Yes?" Mr M was saying, nodding to the back of the class, behind John's shoulder, where he assumed a hand had been raised.  
"What does the M stand for?" piped a voice.  
"How did I know that would be my first question?" Mr M replied, sighing as if the question was a huge imposition to him. "What the M stands for is unimportant and irrelevant to the course. If at any point it becomes relevant, I will immediately inform you all. In the meantime, Mr M is sufficient. Any other questions? Or may I begin the lesson?"  
There was a slightly uncomfortable, indistinct mumbling, then silence. Mr M nodded once. "Good. Now, I believe from the lesson plans Mrs McLeod left that you were up to..."

John packed his things when the bell went, standing on slightly shaky legs. _Shit_. All the lesson had served to do was draw John's attention in closer to the new teacher. The way he taught was captivating; John doubted that even habitually inattentive Peter had missed a word he'd said. John wouldn't know; he'd been so caught up in watching Mr M, in listening to him, that he'd not looked at any of the other students even once during the lesson. Christ, what if it was just him? What if nobody else found Mr M so enthralling, and they'd noticed the way John had been staring at him? Panic flared up in John's gut as he left the classroom, forcing himself to keep his eyes fixed on the back of the head of the person in front of him. He would not look at Mr M again. He would prepare himself over night and after that he would be fine. Mr M would just be his English teacher. Not gorgeous or brilliant or even superlative in any way. He couldn't let himself sit through another lesson with Mr M the way he had this one. Watching every movement, wanting to reach out, wanting to touch. It would only end up with John hurting for something he could never have had.  
John waved goodbye to Peter and Mike, and hugged Charlie. When he got home, it was easy to tell from the silence of the place that his father was out. His mother was in the living room, and when he walked past her to get himself a glass of water the waft of alcohol that came off her nearly knocked him over.  
"Johnny..."  
"When was the last time you washed, mother?" he asked in a soft sigh, not expecting a response. He didn't get one. He retreated to his room as quickly as he could, hearing from the music down the hall that Harry was doing exactly the same thing. John dropped his bag onto the floor and sat at his desk, pulling out his homework planner and hunching over it, blocking out anything outside of his own room by focusing on his homework. 

Once he'd finished an essay for his biology class, five pages of problems out of his calculus text book and three from his statistics - neither of those were due until next week, but he figured he might as well get them done now - and a page on the different forms of oxidised iron, John sat back, dropping his hands into his lap. His mother hadn't called him and Harry for dinner yet. In the state she was in, he wasn't expecting her to. Resisting the urge to throw the meticulously cleaned tin can he used as a pencil holder across the room, John shoved his chair almost violently backwards. He got up and went to his bed, turning on his laptop. It was a slow, old fashioned brick of a thing, but he cherished it. When Mike's parents had bought him a new one, John had bought this one from him. But John suspected that Mike had spent the next two years returning the money to him in small notes and coins, slipped into books and pockets and his backpack. John noticed, but he pretended he didn't. He let Mike do it. He wanted to argue, but really, he needed that money. He couldn't turn it away.  
John started up an internet browser, and out of habit, went to his blog. It was more like a diary than anything else. One his parents couldn't poke through his room for and read when he was out. One they could, admittedly, easily find on the internet if they wanted to, but John was confident they never would. The old computer his parents kept in their closet sized study couldn't really handle the internet, and neither of his parents could really handle a computer, even on the rare occasion either of them was dead sober. John scrolled down through his blog, looking to see if anyone had commented anything interesting. Charlie had added a photograph of the two of them to a post John had made about them going out on the weekend. Other than that, nothing of particular note. John sighed, tapping his fingers against the keyboard lightly as he looked at the screen. After a moment he decided to write something about today. He opened up a new post window and started with his usual beginning; The date, the time. Then he wrote. 

_Mother has been swimming again. She smells of chlorine. Father is out. Three days now since I've actually seen Harry. How is it possible for two people to live under the same roof and lay eyes on one another so infrequently?  
School today wasn't too dreadful. Physics test second period, I don't think I did too badly. Results should be in in a week or so, hoping I got at least a ninety. This year my marks are really going to count towards getting into med. I have to get out of this house. Maybe I can get accomodation on campus or something, hopefully that will be more affordable than flatting. _

John paused there, tapping his thumb against the space bar for a long moment. Then he decided to go for it and went on. 

_We got our new English teacher today. Calls himself Mr M. I'm not sure if he's refusing to give us his last name just to be mysterious, or if he actually has some decent reason. Maybe his name is something completely ridiculous, like Minelly-Pimplemouse. Or maybe he's hiding his identity. Maybe he's Voldemort._

_He doesn't look like Voldemort. He looks... powerful. And he has eyes that can look into your soul. I swear, he looks at you like he can read your mind._

John stopped there. He had been about to go on, about to write about how Mr M looked, about how towards the end of his lesson, a tiny portion of his hair had fallen out of place across his temple, and John's hands had physically twitched with his desire to put it back. He decided against that, though; Charlie read his blog, he didn't need her knowing about that. He posted what he'd written and muddled about on the internet for a little longer, until the slow creeping emptiness in his stomach began to get to him. He closed his laptop - as expected, still no word from his mother. No summons to a dinner she hadn't made. He put his laptop onto his desk and changed, sliding into bed. The best way to ignore this hunger, he'd found, was simply to go to sleep. So he pulled his blankets up his neck and closed his eyes, waiting for the blissful reprieve of it.


	3. Wish You Luck

John's alarm roused him from a slightly disquieting dream where he was running. From something, to something, he didn't know. He only knew that he was running too slow. He shook his head, hoping to clear it from the lingering feeling of impending doom, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. It was early, earlier than he needed to be up. He did this most days, wanting to keep from running into his parents before school. He tidied his hair out of his eyes and dressed, not looking in the mirror until he was done. He didn't want to deal with his reflection yet. He didn't wear a collared shirt today, but the hem on the one he did choose was high enough that it would hide the bruise provided he didn't move too drastically. Once he was dressed and his bag was packed he headed downstairs, slipping silently into the kitchen and getting himself a bowl of cereal. He could see Harry sitting at the table out of the corner of his eye, and when he glanced up before pouring the milk he saw that her eyes were red.  
"Have you been crying?" he asked, his voice neutral as he looked down at his bowl.  
"Haven't slept," Harry corrected him. There was a long pause as John put away the milk and sat down opposite her with his cereal. Then, "I'm moving out, John."  
John's grip tightened on the spoon until his knuckles went white. He didn't look up at her, didn't react, just ate his breakfast. How could she do that to him? All this time with her barely ever around, never there to help him deal with their mother or protect him from their father. She was always out working or partying or she was locked in her room, pretending as though John never existed. And now... now she was just going to abandon him? Leave him at their mercy?  
Harry sighed, lifted her gaze from her hands to John's down turned face.  
"I can't take it here anymore, John. You understand, don't you? I'm done, I'm sick of this place... this place and its silent, grey scale rage. I can't stand it. I'm moving in with Clara."  
John's stomach twisted bitterly. Still, he did not speak. Harry, his sister, his own blood, the one person in the world who he'd always kind of hoped might one day be there for him if he needed it, stick up for him when things got really bad, was throwing in the towel. Giving up on him. Leaving him for the girl she'd been dating barely three weeks, who she'd known little over a month. How could she _do_ that?  
"I'd wish you luck, but I know this is hardly the place for that," Harry said, smiling at him almost apologetically. John can tell she's trying to be kind, trying to be nice to him for the first time in years. He thinks perhaps she's trying to leave him with a good impression of her, a happier picture to hold onto of what kind of person his useless, hollow sister was. But he was not to be fooled. She was leaving him at the mercy of their parents. Their distant mother, vacant and hidden behind endless layers of every drop or pill she can get her hands on. Their hateful father, filled with an endless rage he'd quickly turn onto the closest thing, with his hard, angry eyes and his tendency to speak with his fists rather than his mouth.  
"I'd wish you luck," he replied after a long moment. He had raised his eyes to meet hers, but they were cold and unforgiving. "But I hope you drown."

John spent the walk to school glaring at the ground, kicking stones and practically leaving scorch marks on the tarmac. Of course Harry would leave him; she was a part of his family, why would he ever have thought she might stick around for him? He couldn't understand why he still had such high expectations of the people who were _meant_ to be there for him. You'd think he'd have learnt by now. He was all the way to the common room before he tugged himself out of his head and into reality. He clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging little crescent moons into his palms as he sat and waited for the others to arrive. Liam was the first, yawning widely and rubbing his eyes, dropping down into a seat to John's left. "Hey man," he mumbled, scratching his head and yawning again. John gave a grunt in response; Liam was not fully awake yet, and it gave John that much longer to get himself under control before the rest of his friends turned up. By the time they had John was still barely managing some semblance of normality. His dream had come back to him, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to run. Anywhere, it didn't matter. Just away.  
"You alright, mate?" Peter asked him quietly as the others chattered, leaning in close so they wouldn't be overheard. John made a serious effort not to choke on his words as he replied,  
"I'm fine."  
"You sure?" Peter insisted, turning concerned eyes on John. "Your knuckles look like they're about to break out of your skin."  
With a huge amount of concentration, John was eventually able to coax open his fists and rest his hands in his lap. He took a slow breath. "I'm fine, really. Didn't sleep too good, that's all," he said, painting a smile across his lips. Peter didn't look convinced, but he knew when John was determined not to tell him something, he wouldn't. So he shrugged and sat back, fiddling with his phone. John told himself he'd have to make more of an effort to keep his outward appearance neutral, but saying so didn't make it any easier in practice. He recoiled into himself, ending up curling into his chair and pretending to sleep until the first bell rang. It was easier than trying to act civil. 

It was lunchtime before John abruptly came back to himself. He could barely remember his first four lessons, it seemed he'd moved through the best part of the day on auto pilot. He was blinking owlishly at Liam who was sitting directly across from him, holding a half eaten sandwich he had no idea how he'd acquired. He blinked a couple more times, looked down at the sandwich and then back up at Liam.  
"You with us, John?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. John shook his head a little, dazed, and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry, bit out of it," he muttered.  
"You've been weird all day," Mary said matter-of-factly, dropping a piece of popcorn into her mouth. "Is something wrong?"  
John realised, to his alarm, that suddenly everyone's attention was on him. He smiled, hurriedly assuring them. "No, nothing. Didn't sleep well last night."  
As the others went back to their various pursuits, John felt the tight panic in his chest easing. He was fine. He was always fine. He managed to act a bit more human throughout the rest of lunch, checking his timetable as the bell rang for fifth period. English. Crap.  
"Oh, Finn," John said, suddenly remembering yesterday's bet. "You owe me two quid."  
Finn, already halfway to the door, stopped and turned back to him, confusion on his face.  
"What?"  
"Two quid. And twenty p. Our bet yesterday? You lost," he reminded him, grinning smugly. Finn scowled and started to rifle through his pockets. As he dug out his coins he asked, "So, what was he missing? Beer gut? Bizarre facial hair?"  
"All of it. He can't be much older than us, just qualified I'd say. Fairly clean shaven, fit." John lowered his voice so only Finn and maybe Charlie, who was waiting nearby, could hear. "And, y'know, _fit_ ," he added, smirking and waggling his eyebrows.  
Finn made a face at him, then laughed. "You filth," he muttered, handing over the money. "Now fuck off to your class." John grinned smugly at him and moved up to Charlie's side, dropping the coins into his pocket. They walked to their English class, only just arriving before Mr M. John had just dropped into his seat, barely even had a chance to pull out his books when the teacher walked into the room carrying a stack of books that towered well over his head.  
"Good afternoon, class," he said, bending down to set the books on his desk. John - and judging from the creaks of desks behind him, several others - couldn't help but stare for a moment at the way Mr M's suit trousers clung to his arse. And a very fine arse it is, John thought, before hurriedly tearing his gaze away and focusing it on his book instead. He found his page before looking up, by which time the teacher had moved behind his desk. "Today I'm going to assign you some reading I want you to be doing as homework along with your classwork," Mr M said, launching into the lesson almost immediately. Everything was normal for the first twenty minutes or so, but then a couple of students in the back started whispering to each other. Practically instantaneously, Mr M stopped talking, and his head turned directly towards the talkers. "I believe I made it clear already that I require your respect if you want mine," he said sharply, his tone warning and taking on a slight accent. The talking stopped dead, the classroom perfectly silent for a few beats as everyone took in just how goddamn terrifying Mr M had sounded in that instant. "Thank you," he said, before stepping straight back into his lesson. John was trying to fight back the heat that was creeping up his belly. It had formed when Mr M went suddenly sharp-edged and threatening, and now it was refusing to go away. It stayed resolutely settled there, pleasant and determined, the entire lesson. Once the class had been dismissed, John leant over his bag to pack his bag.  
"Mr Watson, is it? Can I have a word?"  
John's heart jittered nervously in his chest as he finished putting away his books and straightened up. He put his bag over his shoulder and walked to Mr M's desk, feeling like he was walking through something a lot thicker than air. The teacher gave him a brief smile as the last of the students filed out of the room and the door swung shut with a soft click, leaving them in silence.  
"I've got that right, haven't I? You're John Watson?" Mr M asked, glancing down at his roll then back up at John. John nodded, swallowing hard to be able to speak. "Yes sir, that's me."  
Mr M nodded, lacing his fingers together on top of his desk.  
"Now I apologise if this question is too personal, but I do feel like I have to ask," he began, and John's stomach was tying itself in knots as that voice washed over him.  
"That bruise," Mr M went on, nodding his head towards John's colourful clavicle. "How did you get it?"  
Fuck, John thought, panic squeezing his gut even as seventeen years of practice kicked in and his mask slid into place. He shifted his shoulders without thinking about it, pulling his shirt up to cover the offending bruise. He smiled easily, shrugging a little. "Rugby."  
"It's not the season," Mr M reminded him. John's stomach clenched tighter, but he didn't let it show on his face.  
"Doesn't stop me and my mates from playing it," he replied, smiling. "Can I go now? I've got drama and Mr Kenyth is a bit of a nazi about tardiness."  
Mr M didn't look anywhere near convinced, but he conceded. He leant back in his chair, nodding once. "Alright. Have a good evening, Mr Watson."  
"You too, Mr M," John replied, letting himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another chapter where nothing happens! Things will start happening soon, I promise!


	4. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, there is some fairly detailed descriptions of violence in this chapter. If that's a trigger for you or you otherwise don't want to read it, I suggest you skip past the third paragraph. Thanks for reading!

John was a lot more careful to keep his bruise covered for the rest of the school week, and no one else noticed it after Mr M had. By Saturday it had faded to a sickly, yellow-green smudge below his collar bone, and by the time school started up again the next week it had healed completely. All in all, John was in a particularly bright mood when he walked into school that Monday, even if he'd slept in and barely made it to his first class on time. His mother had been almost sober most of the weekend, on Sunday the whole family had gone to church looking semi-respectable for once, and afterwards she'd actually cooked them a proper Sunday roast. It had been well over a year since she'd done something like that. His father had gotten a pay rise at work and he hadn't even clipped John or Harry around the ears all weekend. Harry, for her part, had spent every spare moment she had in her room, of course. But John was hardly expecting perfection. As he sat in his biology class, Ray leant in and whispered to him, "You're looking better today, John."  
John smiled at him, and for once it actually reached his eyes. "I'm feeling better," he agreed. Ray looked almost relieved before he returned to his work. The rest of the day did nothing to dampen his spirits, either, even though he twisted his ankle in drama fourth period and had to limp to lunch. The fact that he had a decent lunch waiting for him - sandwich made with leftovers from the roast, John's mouth was practically watering just thinking about it - more than made up for that. He laughed and talked and ate with his friends, and for the first time in a long time he was able to just let himself pretend like he was just like any one of them. Normal. 

As John made his way home that afternoon, strolling and enjoying the weather - even the sun had come to the party today - there was nagging feeling in the back of his head that something was missing. He told himself it was the usual emptiness in his stomach, or the dull ache of slowly healing bruises. But he couldn't shake that feeling, and as he settled himself at his desk to organise his homework for the evening, he realised what it was. He hadn't had English with Mr M today. He'd become so used to the slightly breathless feeling every time Mr M spoke, the way he had to be so very in control so he didn't slip up and let it show what he thought of the man, that not having to do that for a day simply seemed wrong. Christ, the guy had only been around a week. What was wrong with him? John sighed at himself and shoved away all of that, letting the fact that things were going so well at the moment buoy his mood instantly. His mother had obviously found one of the bottles that he'd hidden from her because she was drunk when he'd arrived, but not utterly blotto and messy, just quietly sprawled on the couch. That wasn't so bad. His father was still at work, he didn't have a clue about Harry. The fact that things were usually so much worse for him reminded him just how good he had it right now, and he held onto that as he got stuck into his homework.   
Once he'd finished anything due the next day John headed downstairs, finding his mother asleep on the sofa. He pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and covered her with it. Then he went to the kitchen and quietly made himself another sandwich for lunch the next day, wrapping it and hiding it carefully at the back of the vegetable bin, so that his father wouldn't find it and eat it when he came home. John briefly considered making one for Harry as well, but the last time she'd spoken she'd told him she wouldn't be visiting once she'd moved out, and bitterness stung through him. He went back to his room and spread out on his bed, starting up his laptop instead. Charlie was online, so he chatted to her for a bit, complained about homework, discussed possibly hanging out the next weekend. She had to go to actually do her own assignments, and John shut off his laptop. He went to sleep early that night, thinking of how nice it would be if his family just stayed like this all the time. 

Tuesday John had English first period, so he arrived at school early, embarrassed at his own eagerness. He played it down in front of his friends, acting reluctant to move when the bell went. But when he was sitting in class watching Mr M teach, that familiar fluttery feeling in his stomach was very much in effect. After class, the teacher smiled at him as he passed, leaving John practically walking on air for the rest of the day. As he fell asleep that night, he thought that maybe, just maybe, things were really starting to look up this time.   
Unfortunately, the next day John realised it had only been the calm before the storm. Because Harry had chosen Wednesday to move out. She'd been packing her things whenever she was in her room for a week or so and she'd taken Wednesday off work. Once John was gone at school and their parents were off at work and wherever it was their mother went when she was mostly lucid, Clara drove around and they spent the day loading the car with Harry's things and taking them to Clara's place. When John was walking home from school Wednesday afternoon, he recognised the car parked up the street from his house and his heart sank to his knees. He knew exactly what Clara being there, waiting in her car reading a magazine, meant for Harry. What it meant for him. He'd taken his time coming back, and as he pushed open the front door he was met with yelling and the sound of something being thrown around. Dad must be home then, he thought. And Harry must've told them. John took off his shoes, hoping to sneak past up to his room and avoid his father's wrath. He was halfway to the stairs when his father's voice snapped, "John! Get in here!" John cringed and set down his bag on the stairs, steeling himself and squaring his shoulders before he walked into the living room. His father and his sister were facing off in the middle of the floor, his mother hovering nervously near the glass door to the garden. Her eyes were overlaid with the glassy look they got whenever she'd taken somebody else's pain medication. At least if father hits her she won't feel it, John thought, his stomach twisting as his father turned his attention on John. He immediately recognised the look in them. One if not all three of them were going to get a beating tonight.   
"Your useless bitch of a sister," John's father snarled, as though John held some sort of responsibility for the way Harry had turned out, "Is moving out!"   
John swallowed hard. His father had stopped, clearly waiting for a response. All John could come up with was, "Oh."  
"Oh!" John's father echoed, rounding back to Harry. Her entire body tensed as she prepared herself for the blow both of them expected was coming soon.   
"I've raised you, Harriet, I've poured years of my life into looking after you, spent every cent I had on you! And now you're just going to walk out? What do I get in return for all of that, Harriet?" he raged, practically screaming his last word.   
"You haven't raised me!" Harry shouted back. This was one of the few things she and John had in common; their fight. They both knew they'd be better off pandering to their father, avoiding aggravating him at all costs. But they just couldn't do it. They both insisted upon arguing back.   
"You've beaten me up since I was tiny for the most ridiculous things, if anything you've tried to kill me!"  
The first blow landed square on Harry's cheek, a right hook, sending her stumbling sideways. The follow up was a quick, short jab from the other side to her eye, effectively keeping her upright with the opposing forces. Mr Watson had been a kick boxer when he was young, and he'd kept his skills honed by practicing them on his children.   
"How dare you speak to me like that, you little witch!" he howled. Harry's teeth had punctured her cheek and she spit a mouthful of blood at him.   
"You never deserved to be a father," she hissed. This time John's father grabbed her, fisted his hand into her shirt and punched at that eye, again and again, until long after it had swelled closed and the eyebrow had split open. She struggled against him, kicking out and shoving at him, but he was much stronger. Terror sinking into his bones, John turned to his mother, silent and empty over by the window. He shook his head, disgusted with her. Time to effectively commit suicide, John, he told himself.   
"Dad, stop it! Leave her alone!" he shouted, nearly sobbing with fear as he grabbed the arm his father was hitting Harry with and yanked at it.   
"John don't!" Harry gasped, but it was too late. Mr Watson tossed her backwards into the wall and she sagged to the floor, the breath knocked out of her. He rounded on John, tossing him into the back of the sofa. John yelped in surprise as he hit the solid frame and then the floor, immediately scrambling to his feet. His father was on him too soon, and he delivered a swift kick to John's stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs and causing him to drop to the floor again. His father kicked him again, keeping him down. Then he turned back to Harry who was fighting to get to her feet. He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her up by it then twisted it around behind her back until there was a sickening snap and Harry cried out in pain.   
"Mum!" John wheezed, still barely able to breathe even as he tried to drag himself upright again. But she didn't react, only sank down to sit on the floor, back to the sliding door and knees tucked up to her chin, eyes wide but impassive. Mr Watson was holding Harry by her definitely broken arm, hissing in her ear about how she was useless, ungrateful, pathetic. She squirmed to get away, but every movement sent fresh fire shooting through her arm and the rest of her body. John had seen his father enraged countless times over the years, but he'd never seen him this bad. He was genuinely worried he might actually kill her. He forced himself up, still gasping for breath as he grabbed blindly at his father, one hand finding purchase in his shirt, the other in his hair. Mr Watson let out an animalistic noise of pure fury, tossing Harry to the ground again as he batted John away. Harry somehow managed to find her feet and she ran, clutching her broken arm against her chest and leaving the door open as she sought the safety of Clara. Mr Watson had seized John's hands and had them both trapped by one of his own. His other grabbed the side of John's face, and using all his weight he drove John's head downwards and through the glass coffee table. John heard the shattering of the glass, but after that everything went mercifully black.


	5. I Have Known Pain

When John came to, he figured it must have hours because the room was dark. His head ached something fierce and his stomach throbbed, waves of pain from both places pulsing through the rest of his body. Naturally neither of his parents had tried to help him or move him, because he was still in the living room. After giving himself a few moments to get a little more control over his still foggy mind, he rolled gingerly over onto his back. Glass crunched underneath him as he moved and realised the floor must be littered with shards of it. Slowly, slowly he moved, and yet still he felt dizzy from it. John eased himself into a sitting position, then forward onto his hands and knees. Every movement sent fresh pain spiralling through him and he had to bite his lip to keep quiet. He made his way through to the bathroom like that, crawling, having to occasionally pause to pick a stray piece of glass out of a palm or a knee. He hoisted himself up to sit on the bath, head spinning as he clung to the edge of it for what felt like an eternity. Eventually he managed to reach up and flick on the light, and lock the door behind himself. Then he scooted along the edge of the bath, and slowly, gingerly lifted himself to his feet in front of the mirror, clinging to the basin to keep himself upright. Jesus. The side of his face that his father had... had... what had he done? John had to pause for a long moment to call up the memory, but finally it came. The side of his face that his father hand slammed into the table was covered in tiny cuts, some of which had bled heavily and left his cheek coated in dried blood. The eye on that side was half closed, swollen from the impact and sporting a shard of glass still embedded in it. John got his mother's tweezers from the medicine cabinet and gingerly tugged it out, wincing. He dabbed at the blood that ran from it with a torn off bit of toilet tissue. He leant down over the sink and washed the blood off his face, making sure he'd got all the glass out. He ran his hands through his hair, feeling for injury or the stickiness of blood, but there was none. That was a relief, at least. A wave of nausea suddenly assaulted him and he clutched at the basin, determined not to vomit with the state his stomach was in. In time it passed and he breathed deep before looking over his reflection again. His face looked much better now he'd cleaned off the blood. Unfortunately in dealing with it he'd reopened a few of the more serious cuts, and little rivulets of blood were meandering down his cheek. Deciding that was as good as it was going to get, John took a rag from the cupboard and made his way to his room. He spread the rag on his pillow so that blood wouldn't get onto his bedclothes as he slept. With wobbly hands he stripped off his jeans and crawled into bed, taking slow, shallow breaths to push aside the pain enough to fall asleep. 

When John woke in the morning the first thing that started up was the headache. He groaned softly, rolling gingerly to his side. Pain immediately flared through his abdomen. Sighing, John got up carefully and rifled through his school bag. He kept painkillers in there so they were with him all the time, which meant his mother couldn't nick them. He took a couple and hid them away again, picking out some clothes before heading down to the bathroom. He undressed - painful, especially taking off his shirt - and showered, being very careful not to look at himself. Once he was clean and dried off he went and stood in front of the mirror, taking in his injured body. The bruising on his stomach and chest was such a dark purple it was almost black, mottled with redder patches. Amongst the bruises there was a long, narrow cut where the skin over his ribs, stretched thin as it was, had simply split. John picked up his shirt from last night off the floor; sure enough, he'd bled through it. He hoped none had reached his sheets, blood was a bitch to get out of those. He got the first aid kit from under the sink and disinfected the cut, but he had nothing he could use to cover it. So he just left it as it was and moved on. The cuts on his face had scabbed up overnight, though the one in his eyelid still looked a little nasty. He dabbed disinfectant on that one too, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from hissing at the sting. Eventually he dressed, high collar and long sleeves, tucking his shirt into his jeans. He put on an under-shirt too, just to make sure if his ribs bled again it wouldn't get through to his shirt. He settled his bag across both his shoulders to even out the weight as best he could and left for school without bothering to eat or grab lunch. His stomach really didn't feel up to eating today, even if their had been something decent to take with him. 

People were staring. People were staring at John as he passed them on the path, as he made his way through the halls at school. They were staring at him and he _hated ___it. His friends were almost as bad, their eyes running over the cuts on his face and widening with concern. They knew better, though, and quickly looked away, not saying anything about them. John was relieved when they didn't question it and he slumped down into a seat, arranging himself so the least amount of pressure possible was on his stomach. He got the feeling he was not going to enjoy today very much. But being here was better than being at home. He managed to hold a conversation well enough, and he sat through biology only cringing slightly. After that was drama, though, and he knew he wouldn't be able to handle that. He hurried to get to class early, pulling his teacher aside before the rest of the class arrived.  
"I'm sorry, Mr Kenyth, but I don't think I'm going to be able to participate much in class today. Bit of a migraine," he said, habitually minimising his own suffering. Mr Kenyth studied him silently for a moment. "Related to those cuts?" he asked.  
"Yes, sir. Had a bit of an accident," John replied, praying he wasn't going to ask anymore questions. Mr Kenyth seemed to consider for a moment, then conceded with a shallow nod.  
"Fine. Contribute at much as you can, Watson," he said a little gruffly, and John was free. He would have sighed with relief, but that hurt too much. So instead he sat down against the stage and waited for class to start. He managed to suffer through interval and statistics without anyone questioning him, but people were driving him mad with the staring. He sank gratefully into his seat in English after a long walk across the grounds, needing to take a few breaths before he was in control of the pain enough to get out his things. Mr M's eyes landed on him almost the moment he walked into the room, and John's heart did a roll in his chest. He didn't say anything, just went on with the lesson. But those eyes - those infuriating, all seeing, soul melting eyes - kept flicking back to John, making his breathing hitch quietly every single goddamn time. At one point Mr M was walking around the room while they worked and he stopped at John's desk, resting the fingertips of one hand on the graffiti covered surface. His hands looked strong, even though his nails were perfectly manicured. An oddly feminine touch for a man, John thought. He'd never seen a man with nails done like that. "I'd like to see you after class, Mr Watson," he said softly. John cleared his throat to try and get his heart out of it.  
"Yes, sir," he replied, head still down turned as his eyes remained fixed on Mr M's hand. He was trying to keep his cut face as out of view as possible, even though Mr M was standing on the side that was decorated from hairline to collar in little nicks. Mr M said nothing more, lingering a moment longer before pulling his hand away, out of John's line of sight and moving past him. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest but he fought to keep his breathing even. Hyperventilating with a body as messed up as his was at the moment was one, painful and two, not exactly subtle. He kept his head down for the rest of the lesson, packing up slowly so the class was empty by the time he walked over to Mr M's desk.  
"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked nervously.  
"Yes," Mr M agreed, grabbing a chair and putting it down beside his desk. "Have a seat," he said, rolling his own chair over in front of it. Heart in his throat again, John sat down on the indicated chair, putting his bag down beside him. Mr M was looking straight at him, and John was finding it difficult to hold his gaze. He was still so certain the man could see into his soul it made him uncomfortable to have him looking at him so intensely. He barely seemed to blink, and that just added to his overall unsettling vibe. Mr M's hands were steepled in his lap, and he raised them to tap against his laps a moment before he spoke.  
"I understand entirely that you won't want to answer this question, Mr Watson," he began, looking at him calmly. John's gaze dropped to Mr M's hands in his lap. Left thumb crossed over his right; must be left handed, John thought, before forcing himself to raise his eyes again. He was trying to distract himself. But Mr M was not the kind of man to be distracted from.  
"However, I do insist upon an answer. And this time, I want an honest one." The man's voice was serious, and John remembered how fantastically terrifying he'd been that day someone had talked in his class. Mr M's tone this time carried none of that threat, however.  
"What happened to your face?"  
It was the question John had been dreading all day. He'd prepared a bogus story to explain it, but as he opened his mouth to spin his line, John made the mistake of meeting Mr M's eyes. His lie dried up on his tongue. He shut his mouth again and swallowed. He couldn't lie to him. For some highly irritating, extremely unhelpful reason, John found that he could not lie to Mr M. He'd been lying his whole life and now, suddenly, he'd found the one man that he just couldn't deceive. Eyes still lingering on the teacher's, John let out a resigned sigh.  
"It was my father," he explained, bile rising in his throat, accompanied by hot panic as he began to speak. But as he went on he relaxed, and the feeling dissipated. "He shoved me into the glass coffee table. I was trying to stop him hurting my sister."  
John went quiet, watching Mr M carefully for a reaction. He actually felt relieved. As it turned out, after all this time it actually felt good to finally tell someone. Mr M did nothing for a very long moment. Then he nodded, leaning back and fetching a first aid kit out of the bottom drawer of his desk.  
"Is that all he did?" Mr M asked, nodding to John's face. John hesitated, unsure if he wanted to answer that, but he hesitated too long and the other man spotted it immediately.  
"I've known pain, John. I can see it in your eyes."  
"He kicked me," John admitted.  
"Show me," Mr M instructed.


	6. Need

This time, John didn't hesitate. His heart was racing, but he wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to take his clothes off in front of someone attractive, despite the circumstances. He started to unbutton his shirt, his face contorting into a cringe for an instant before he smoothed it over again. He eased out of his shirt, folding it carefully over the back of his chair. Uncovering his arms revealed a litany of old scars, some mostly healed, some barely having made the transition from wound to scar. John could feel Mr M's eyes running over every one, but he didn't look up at him. Instead he just pulled his undershirt up and off, gritting his teeth as pain ripped through him. Finally he dragged his eyes upwards, finding Mr M silently studying him. The teacher's eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide and his face otherwise impassive. John felt bizarrely like some specimen under a microscope. He felt like that should have made him uncomfortable, but strangely, it didn't. He just sat and waited, watching Mr M evaluate his chest and stomach. Eventually Mr M sat back, turning his attention down to the first aid kit as he searched for what he wanted.  
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to report him?" he asked conversationally. John appreciated that; calm, collected, simple. Easy.   
"Can't. Mum doesn't have a job, and with the state she's in most of the time, she couldn't get one either. Or hold one, if she ever did. She's useless, but she's still my mum, and she needs him." John wasn't entirely sure why he was telling all of this to a man who was essentially a complete stranger. But, he supposed, if he was going to tell him some of the story, he may as well get the whole thing. Otherwise he wouldn't understand why John let his father get away with the things he did.   
"There are shelters," Mr M reasoned. John shook his head.   
"My mother is an addict. With no desire to recover. She'd never last in one of those, they'd kick her out."   
Mr M had put on a pair of gloves from the first aid kit, and he had an antiseptic wipe in his hand. John grit his teeth in preparation for more pain, but none came as Mr M cleaned the cut on his ribs. John relaxed. Mr M's touch was gentle and comforting, not what John had been conditioned to expect from men. Exactly what he needed. John let out a little breath, realising that this new fact did nothing to help him get over his attraction to the teacher. Hoping to distract himself, he kept talking.   
"As soon as I can, I'm going to be out of there," John said. "Once I'm done with school I want to go to university, but if I can't get into accommodation I'll just get a job until I can afford a flat. Then it will all be fine."  
Mr M looked up from spreading vaseline along the cut. John didn't question this, because his father had done the same in his boxing days. Kept out infection, encouraged healing or something.   
"There is always a solution, John," Mr M said calmly. "Perhaps you just haven't thought of it yet."

At home that evening, John was locked in his room - he'd even gone so far as to barricade his door, in case his father decided he wanted to have another go at him. John knew his body couldn't take it if he did. The fact that he wouldn't be able to get into the room if he wanted to would only enrage John's father further, but John was confident he could keep himself safe from that until he healed up enough. He knew his father was angry because he never got over something like last night straight away, and when he'd come home John had only been able to get upstairs without being noticed because his parents were having a screaming match. It was a real howler, too; John was surprised the neighbours hadn't called the police. Again. The last time someone had called the cops on his father, his mother had kept them distracted in the front of the house, lying through her teeth, while his father had snuck out the back door. After that, he'd tried to set the neighbour's house on fire, but it had been the wrong neighbours and they'd simply moved out. Mr Watson used that as a 'teaching tool' for Harry and John. He'd smacked them both around a bit, informing them that if they ever thought about calling the cops on him, they were to remember that he kept gasoline in tanks in the garage, and he could just as easily set either of them on fire. Since then John had planned a hundred thousand ways to get around this threat, plan after plan to keep his father away from the gas, get rid of it, have him arrested while he was out in public, anything. But he'd never followed through with any of them. Because every time he was tempted to call the police on his father, he imagined what would happen to him and Harry if he got arrested. His mother was a mess, she could never get a job. They'd either starve or be taken away. So he'd held back, and held back, and held back. Now... now it seemed almost pointless to bother. Harry was gone, she was out. He didn't have to worry about her anymore. And if he did get taken away, he'd only be in care for a few months before he was deemed old enough to look after himself anyway. His mother would be the one to suffer the most, left alone with no source of income, potentially charged with negligence for not stepping in.   
John shook his head fiercely immediately regretting it because it only aggravated his headache. He didn't need to be thinking about this stuff. He needed to be focusing on his homework. Mr M had said there was a solution, he just hadn't thought of it. But John didn't believe that. He'd spend too long thinking over it all to believe there was another option. So he pushed those thoughts aside, looking down at his page. He was working on an essay for English. It wasn't difficult; usually John would have had it finished by now, or at least a first draft. But John's mind just would not sit still long enough to get anything on paper. He tapped his pen against the page irritably, staring at his book as though pure will alone would bring the information he needed to mind. Downstairs, the yelling had finally stopped. John was relieved for all of about twenty seconds before heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Then his relief was quickly replaced by panic as his father approached his room. John silently reassured himself that the dresser would keep him out and waited, hardly breathing. But the footsteps went on past his room to Harry's. John let out a breath of relief, listening hard. His father was throwing things around Harry's room; he could hear the crashing of things falling about, the splintering of wood. John stayed where he was, heard pounding and barely breathing, for almost an hour as his father destroyed whatever it was that Harry had left in her room. Finally there was the slam of a door and his father storming down the hall to the stairs. John let out a breath, but it caught when the heavy footsteps of this father's progress away from him halted. Turned. Moved towards John's door. Paused. John scrambled out of his desk chair, moving back, away from the door. He watched his door handle make a half turn until the lock stopped its motion. His hasty retreat met with his bed and he clumsily clambered over it, still staring at the the door. His father wriggled the door handle, his frustration evident in the resounding slam of his palm against the door.   
"John! Open the door!"  
John said nothing, numbly crawling underneath his bed like he had when he was a child. For some reason his father had never found him there, especially if he'd left his window open. Not that a child as small as he was at twelve, seven, four could have made the jump from the second story without injury. His father's fists were pounding against the door now, the dresser shaking slightly with each blow. Every time his hands connected a wave of nausea rolled through John, and pain exploded in his head. He been afraid of his father his whole life. But hadn't been this afraid of him in years. Something told him it was the look he'd seen in his eyes when he'd broken Harry's arm last night. The certainty he'd had that his father could kill either of them with ease, and that he wouldn't be held back by any kind of sentiment he had for his children. If he had any at all. 

Mr Watson had given up trying to break into his son's room an hour or so ago, but John was still under his bed. He'd dragged his homework in with him, and a couple of pillows to rest his upper chest and his hips on, keeping his bruised stomach off the floor as he worked on his essay. He felt much safer under here. Homework for Mr M's class made John's mind wander back to the teacher himself, and he had to brush away his voice in his ear more than a few times before he'd finished his final draft. He left it at that, tugging a blanket down from off his bed to wrap around himself as he settled down for the night. His entire body ached, but after Mr M's help this afternoon and the painkillers he'd given him - a better quality than the cheap, old pills that he kept - it was a dull, slow ache rather than fierce pain. Now that he had nothing to distract himself with, it was Mr M his mind wandered back to. How careful he'd been when he was tending John's injuries, despite the anger that had burned in his eyes and tightened his voice when John had told him about his father. His eyes were terrible with that fire in them; almost black with rage, barely restrained and dangerous. But somehow that had drawn John in, fascinated him. Made him want to reach out to the other man, touch his face and soothe him.   
_Shit,_ John thought suddenly, his eyes popping open. _Shit, shit._ I fancy him. Not just objectively think he's kinda good looking, might consider going there under different circumstances. Properly fancy him, want to hold him when he's hurting sort of fancy. John closed his eyes again, covering them with his hand. He'd told himself he wouldn't, but he'd gone and done it anyway. What was he supposed to do with that? 

It's Friday, John told himself silently as he dressed gingerly, back to the mirror. Which means after today I have a whole weekend in which I can do everything in my power to get over this ridiculous crush. But what? he pondered as he buttoned his shirt. He wanted to be out of the house as much as possible, because he was fairly confident his father would still be raging about at every opportunity. The idea that came to him was slow but simple. Girls. Great, he could do that. He'd take someone out on a couple of dates, hang out with Charlie like he'd said he would, try and shift his affection from Mr M to some girl in one of his classes that he actually stood a chance with. Now the question was only who. Well, there was Kathryn, from his Calculus class - no, scratch that, he didn't have calculus today. Statistics instead. John ran through a mental list of the girls in his Stats class that he flirted with occasionally. Lisa. Lisa had actually asked him out once, and he'd wanted to accept. But she'd wanted to go to the beach, and at the time he'd had marks on his back from the buckle on his father's belt. So he'd been forced to turn her down. Well, he could take her up on the offer now. Not the beach though, Christ no. He was in much worse shape now than he had been then. Something that involved keeping your clothes on. Maybe a movie. Or bowling or something. Thus decided, John hauled his dresser away from his door, picked up his bag and headed to school, relieved that his father was already at work. "John?" came his mother's voice from the end of the hall, and internally he cringed. He turned towards her, preparing his 'I have to get to school' speech.   
"Yes?" he replied. She was standing at the end of the hall, just outside her bedroom door, wrapped tight in her threadbare dressing gown. She actually looked relatively sober for once.   
"Is... Harry's really gone, isn't she?" her voice sounded small, childlike. It made John's stomach twist.   
"Yes, mum. She's really gone."  
John's mother nibbled at her lower lip for a moment.   
"I'm not going to give you her new address, because I know you'll give it to dad and I'm not about to let him follow her now she's out of this hell hole," John said. Perhaps he was being a little harsh, but it was the truth. "But she's still got her phone. Call her."  
He didn't hang around to see if she did or not.


	7. Lisa

Lisa was reluctant to go out with John at first, but when he cut down her excuse of homework by promising to help her with it, she gave in. John hoped the only reason she hadn't agreed straight away was because of him turning her down before. She did seem genuinely pretty chuffed to be going out with him. She smiled at him a lot during class - he'd asked her before hand, taking advantage of the fact their teacher was running late - and even gave him one of those lovely little girly giggles when he said he'd see her Saturday. He made his way through the rest of his classes feeling pretty damn pleased with himself.  
Right up until English last period.  
All thoughts of Lisa disappeared from his head the moment Mr M walked into the room. It may just have been his imagination, but he would have sworn the new teacher was looking at him more intensely than he had before. And - God help him - John found himself actually flirting as he discussed his essay with Mr M after class was finished. He was leaning slightly on the teacher's desk, going over the topic he'd chosen. Mr M was looking up at him, having given John the go ahead on the direction he was taking it. John couldn't help but think just how beautiful his eyes looked like that. And he blamed this - exceptionally distracting as it was - for why John was suddenly lowering his eyelids just a touch, licking his lips.  
"Take a break this weekend, John. Actually relax a bit. Will you do that for me?" Mr M asked, chin tilted up to meet John's eyes.  
"For you sir, I would do anything," John replied confidently. Then he heard his own words and he blushed violently, looking away. "Uh... That's not what I meant... That - that didn't come out right..." He stammered nervously, looking any where but at Mr M. A soft, breathy noise came from the teacher that might have been a laugh, but when he spoke a moment later there was no trace of it. "Not to worry, Mr Watson. I know exactly what you meant. Off you go, have a good weekend." John nodded and scurried out of the class without looking at him again, too mortified to check his reaction. It wasn't until much later that he started to fret over what Mr M had meant when he'd said he knew exactly what John had meant. Because Mr M seemed to be able to see right into his soul, and John had actually meant exactly what he'd said. What if he knew that? How would he react to one of his students having a crush on him? Surely he would have said something about it. So, no, he couldn't, John told himself. He must have just meant he knew John hadn't meant it the way it had sounded. He was just being nice. Surely.

John was out of the house early on Saturday morning - well before either of his parents were up. He had breakfast and coffee with Mike at the little cafe near the library - Mike had been procrastinating an assignment for the last three weeks and now had only the weekend and Monday to finish it. John helped him work on that a while until it was time to meet Lisa at the mall. He was actually almost disappointed to find he didn't have that slightly jittery, fluttery feeling as he made his way over there. He assured himself that he would get it when he saw her, but no such luck there either. Seemed he only got that feeling for _him_ now. John refused to think about _him_ today. The whole point of it was to forget him. So he shut down any thought of him when he saw Lisa lingering by one of the planters at the mall and he walked over to her, painting on his best smile.  
"Hey," he said casually as he approached. She turned towards him, her face bursting into a shy smile.  
"Hi, John," she replied, leaning up on her toes to press a kiss to John's cheek. He saw what she was doing before she did it and he silently prayed for the fluttery feeling. Nothing. He smiled at her like he had felt it, though, and held out his arm for her to link her own arm through it. Lisa obliged, blushing slightly at the gesture and looking up at him. "So, where shall we go first?"  
John shrugged. "Anywhere you like."'  
Lisa led the way from shop to shop, picking through shelves and trying things on, occasionally getting John to try on an item or two. He was grateful for the privacy of the changing rooms, allowing him to wince as much as he needed to as he changed from one thing to another. The pair talked near constantly as they walked about this that and the other thing, and John was really enjoying himself. He just had to keep reminding himself it was a date. That he wasn't just out with a friend. Holding Lisa's hand in one of his, and her bag in the other, they wandered eventually toward the food court. Charlie was there, all but tackling John in a hug the moment she spotted them. Laughing, John returned the embrace and set her down on her feet.  
"Charlie, this is Lisa, Lisa, this is my friend Charlie," he introduced them. The girls chatted for a bit, then all three got lunch and sat down. John could tell Charlie approved from the way she kept talking to them, and that Lisa wasn't exactly against Charlie, either, when she'd long since finished her meal and was still engrossed in conversation with her. John was content to sit by and listen, let himself get caught up in their words and not think. Finally Lisa looked up at John with a smile in her eyes and asked, "What time's our movie?"  
"Four," John replied, and glanced at his watch. "We'd better start heading that way."  
"Sure. Charlie, do you want to come see the movie with us?" Lisa asked, standing up. Charlie glanced at John, who wasn't opposed to the idea, then shook her head.  
"I have to get home," she replied. "But thanks for the offer."  
She hugged them both goodbye then started off towards the exit. Lisa threaded her fingers through John's as they started towards the cinemas. "She's lovely. How do you know her?"  
"I've known her for years. Kindergarten, I think," he replied.  
"Is that all?" Lisa asked, and it took John a couple of beats to work out what she was getting at. When he finally did he turned a patient smile on her. "Yes, that's all."

Lisa had picked the movie, and John got the feeling from the way she was reacting that she'd seen it before. John hadn't, but he couldn't get into the plot, and his mind just kept wandering back to a certain someone he wasn't going to think about today. So he settled for looking across at Lisa, reminding himself that she was the one he was here with. It wasn't long before she noticed and turned to look up and him, her small smile lit from her right side by the flickering glow of the movie. Her eyelids drifted down a little and she lifted her chin, a clear invitation. John took it, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers in a slow, chaste kiss. When she hadn't pulled away after a few moments John brought one hand up to cup her cheek, fiercely ignoring the brief stab of confusion when he found it soft and stubble-free. _That_ was most certainly not allowed. 

Standing in the lobby to the cinema, Lisa looked out into the dusk at the rows of cars."My dad's here," she announced, turning back to look up at John and give him an apologetic smile. "I have to go. But... I had a really great time today." A slight blush was creeping up her cheeks and John couldn't help but return her shy smile.  
"Yeah, me too," he agreed. She was still holding his hand, and her eyes darted out to her father's car and then back to him again.  
"Would you... I mean, I'll have to check with my parents first, but they should be fine with it. Would you like to come round for dinner tomorrow? You've still got to help me with that homework," she said, a little bit of a cheeky smile coming to her face. John was torn. But he knew he needed to distract himself, and if she really liked him, then... well, it was his best bet. And he knew he'd grow to like her back, if he put enough time and effort into it. It wasn't using her if he liked her back, was it?  
"I'd love that," John replied, grinning.  
"Okay. I'll text you," Lisa told him, standing up on her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips before she hurried outside. John stood in the lobby and watched her go. He wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing here, but he _needed_ to get Mr M off his mind. 

When John crept back into the house well after midnight - he'd always been good at finding ways to amuse himself that didn't involve being around his family - his father was asleep in front of the TV, snoring like a freight train and drooling a little out of his open mouth. He carefully pinched some food from the kitchen - his mother's sobriety had apparently held out long enough to do the grocery shopping, but not long enough to make a meal from the results. Judging by what she'd bought, she'd spent a good portion of the money his father had given her for food on drink. He headed up the stairs and locked himself in his room, hesitating before dragging his dresser back in front of the door. The effort hurt, but he was better off making sure his father didn't decide to pay him a visit in the wee hours. John ate, storing what he could in a metal container he kept inside the frame of his bed. It was an old army tin, with a big red medical plus sign painted on the top of it. That red plus meant salvation to the sick and the wounded in that war - it meant the same thing to John when he was starving. He wrapped his blankets tightly around himself and curled up in bed, dropping off almost immediately. Falling asleep easy was a good habit to get into when you didn't know when you were next going to get the opportunity. His exhaustion had caught up with him, because he was still asleep when the familiar drumming of his father's fists on the door drew him out of sleep around eleven.  
"John! Church!" he shouted. But he wasn't trying the door, so that was a good sign. They didn't go to church any more. At least, not often. Not that they ever really had. Why had his father suddenly decided to go now? When John's mother was a mess, his sister gone, John still littered with the evidence of his father's abuse? It had to be a lie. Whatever the reason, John sure as hell wasn't tagging along. Carefully as he could he slipped out of bed and dressed, doing his utmost to move silently. "Answer me!" his father demanded from outside the door. John shoved a few things in his pocket and started to push the window open, as quietly as he could. "Hurry up, you lazy slug!" came the next jeer from the hallway. A sudden wave of defiance washed through him and he pulled the fingers at the still barricaded door to his room before turning and stepping out of the window onto the outer ledge. His father was starting to try the door handle now, cursing in frustration when he couldn't open it. There was a solid shake from the door as what John could only assume was a kick connected. He carefully lowered himself down so he was hanging by his arms, biting his lower lip to hold in a howl of pain. His feet found an edge and he was able to breathe again. He didn't let himself linger long, though. Steeling himself he dropped to the ground. A weak, pained whimper escaped John's throat as he hit, his whole body abruptly on fire. But before he could even properly process the pain he felt, he was on his feet and running, anywhere so long as it was away from his house.


	8. Distract Me

John arrived at Lisa's house - she'd sent him the address when she'd confirmed his invite for dinner the night before - at a few minutes before six. She answered the door herself, smiling at John and welcoming him inside. He was introduced to her sister first - twelve or so, same colour eyes and hair and didn't like to speak much. She lifted an eyebrow at John, her gaze lingering on his injured cheek for a few moments before she turned away again. And that was all the interaction he got from her his whole stay. Next was Lisa's mother - quite the counterpoint to John's own, tall and bubbly and loud, she beamed down at John from her really rather significant height and rattled off a round of questions as she cooked. Lisa's father was more reserved when he came out of his study. He emerged as his wife laid the table with John and Lisa's help. He gave John a nod of greeting and only really spoke once everyone was seated around the table. "What happened to your face, John?" he asked in a quiet voice.  
"Oh, it's nothing," John replied, brushing it off as though it really was nothing. "Just a bit of gravel rash. Had a bit of an accident on my bike, that's all," he lied easily, giving him a smile that said he was over it. John was pretty sure it didn't look remotely like gravel rash. Lisa's father regarded John for a long moment before giving him a solemn nod and reaching out to take his wife and John's hands to say grace. His fingers were scrubbed to within an inch of their life, but still carried traces of yellow tobacco stains, especially under his nails. John barely remembered the words of a grace prayer, but he managed to speak it along with Lisa's family. Dinner was a far more comfortable affair than it ever was in his own home. He had to keep reminding himself to speak, because that was clearly the expected thing here - speaking out of turn over dinner in front of his own parents earned far more than the stern look that seemed to be the worst Lisa's father was capable of. Lisa and her mother held up most of the conversation, but it still flowed easily around the table as it needed to, with the exclusion of the youngest daughter. John's future plans were discussed over dessert - he kept it down to med school, no need to bring up the rest - and then finally Lisa said, in a tone that was clearly intentionally sweet, "May John and I be excused? I need his help with an assignment."  
"Of course, love," her mother replied, waving a hand in a shooing motion. "Off you pop." She was already turning to her other daughter to ask for help clearing dishes. Lisa stood and led John off upstairs, locking her bedroom door behind them. John turned to face her, mouth starting to open to ask what homework she wanted help with.  
But it wasn't homework at all.  
She stepped forward and kissed him, different to how she had in the theatre. Her arms moved up to wrap around his neck, and John quickly reminded himself to respond. This kiss was quite clearly not so much an invitation, but more of an indication of where Lisa planned to go from here. John slid his arms around her waist, forcing himself not to think. He turned off the part of his brain that wanted to protest, remind him of the total lack of attraction he felt towards this girl. Instead he pressed close against her and kissed back, letting himself do no more than feel. When Lisa's hands started to wander John realised he'd started to daydream. It was about then that he knew this was wrong - that he shouldn't be doing this with her, when he so thoroughly did not want her like this. But... she wanted it. Clearly. So it was okay, right? Her hands started to push up his shirt and he remembered the bruising underneath it all at once. The reminder hit him like a slap in the face and he panicked a little, trying to work out how to stop her from discovering them. She must have sensed his hesitation, then, because one of her hands reached back and flicked off the light. John thought that if her parents were to walk past and see that the light was off in her room they'd know instantly that what John and Lisa were doing was most certainly not homework. But she was already pushing his shirt off, and as the soft thud of it hitting the carpet reached his ears, John made a decision. He needed a distraction. And Lisa seemed eager to give him one. He would make himself like her back, he would make himself want her. He would have to. So he trailed his arms down her sides until they gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it off. It wasn't like she was his first. He would enjoy this. 

Afterwards, lying in bed with the covers pulled up over their chests, staring at the ceiling and barely touching, Lisa was the first to speak.  
"John, I don't want you to take this the wrong way."  
His first thought was that he hadn't been any good. Heat sprang to his cheeks and he waited for her to say so. He'd thought she was enjoying herself...  
"But I think we both know this isn't going to happen again," she went on. John let out a slow breath - he had to breathe slowly and carefully now, because the sex had only strained his injuries, and right now everything hurt. Lisa was still speaking, though. "It's not that you were rubbish, in fact you were quite good. You're definitely considerate, which is a lovely change," she assured him, still looking up at the ceiling. John made no move to look at her, either.  
"It's only that... well, I'm afraid I'm just not all that attracted to you. I'm really sorry, that's sounds horrid, I was just... well, I was hoping to distract myself. You saw how my parents are religious and all, and they wouldn't... they wouldn't, ah..." Lisa's voice wavered a little and she cleared her throat. Now John did turn towards her.  
"I know the situation right now doesn't exactly lend itself to it, but you can talk to me. I'm not going to get upset about the fact you don't want to shag me again," he replied, his tone light. Lisa swallowed hard and nodded, rolling on her side to face John.  
"I needed a distraction," she said again, and John nodded. "I feel horrible -"  
"Oh, don't. Please, don't feel bad about it. I was distracting myself too," John admitted. They could hardly see each other in the dark. Lisa gave a sigh of relief.  
"Oh, thank god. I just - I'm sure there are other ways but I couldn't think of any."  
"If... if you don't mind me asking," John began. "What were you trying to distract yourself from?"  
Lisa's voice dropped even lower before she responded, as though the very walls had ears. "I... I'm pretty sure I like a girl." It was a scared whisper, practically terrified. John reached out and put a hand gently on her shoulder.  
"You know that's okay, right?"  
Lisa hesitated. "My parents won't think so," she replied.  
"My parents wouldn't approve if I told them I was bi either," John told her. "So I'm not going to tell them until I've moved out."  
There was a long pause. And then Lisa asked, "Would it be totally weird if I hugged you right now?"  
John chuckled. "If you like, I'll ignore the fact we're both naked."  
"Please," she agreed. 

When John was leaving, stood on the steps outside her door, Lisa leant down and kissed his cheek. "Thank you so much, John," she said sincerely. John smiled at her.  
"No problem at all," he replied. She cracked a smile.  
"Hey, what about this. I'll tell mine if you tell yours."  
John's stomach did an odd thing, as if it couldn't decide between leaping at the prospect and churning over the fact the object of his affections was way out of his reach. He shook his head. "I've got no chance," he told Lisa with certainty. "But you should totally go for it."  
Lisa quirked an eyebrow at him, then she grinned wider. "Okay. I will, tomorrow." John nodded, pleased with that. Lisa hesitated a moment, then went on. "John... On Monday, I don't want us to go back to how we were before, okay? I want you to be my friend. Properly."  
John nodded definitively. "I'm sure we can do that." They said their goodbyes and John headed home, taking the long way so by the time he was walking up his street, his house was completely dark. Of course, his bedroom door was still barricaded, so he dragged their bin over underneath his window, pausing to lean against the wall and pant for a while as the pain of overusing his damaged body flared up again. It was only in for more over use, though, as he climbed up on top of the bin, jumping and grabbing for the ledge that he would be able to haul himself up to his window ledge from. He missed the first few times, and on one attempt knocked over the bin on his way down, winded himself, and lay gasping in the grass for several endless moments until he got his breath back. Finally, though, he managed to scramble through into his room and crawl over to his bed. He toed off his shoes, but aside from that he lay down fully clothed, once again seeking an escape from his pain in sleep. 

Once John had accepted that distracting himself from his attraction to Mr M was not going to be effective in dulling his affections for the man, John decided to just let his crush run its course and eventually fizzle out when it worked out that he was going to receive no reciprocation. At the very least, he told himself, I'll do nothing until I heal up, and then if I still fancy him I'll re-evaluate. It seemed like a fine plan. Only problem was, on most days when he had English before a break or as his last class of the day, Mr M would call him aside after class and help him with his injuries, checking the cut on his rib and giving John antiseptic cream when his cheek started to look a little puffy. And he was always so careful, so gentle with John. And when he was alone after those meetings John couldn't help but let his mind wander to that man and his kind hands. By the time his cheek was healed and back to normal, his bruising faded and and the slight swelling in his abdomen had gone down, John had no less of a crush on Mr M than before, and if anything, his feelings had only gotten stronger. He needed a new plan. It took him a day or two to work one out, but eventually he settled on avoidance. If he just avoided Mr M as much as he possibly could, surely his affection would fade. He wouldn't look at him in class, he'd make excuses when he wanted to speak to him alone - class, rugby, meeting, family emergency, anything he could think of - and he'd be fine. One day Mr M would walk into class and John wouldn't get that giddy flutter in his chest, that hopeful heady rush. After this he could think of only one method to deal with this, and he wasn't prepared to handle the embarrassment that would lead to. So he could only hope that after the failure of distraction, the failure of waiting it out, plan three would work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad habit of not naming my minor characters.


	9. If At First You Don't Succeed

It didn't work. 

That first day John simply left with the other people in his class, and all was fine. Two more days after that, and John had managed to leave English class without looking at Mr M any more than he absolutely needed to for the sake of the lesson, and had brushed off the teacher's one attempt to pull him aside for an after class talk with an excuse of needing to head to the library. He didn't go to the library, of course. He headed to lunch with his friends, sitting next to Charlie and bickering about something asinine until his attention was caught by a conversation across the circle from them.  
"...think it's odd that Mr M still wears those suits everyday? I'd have thought he'd have relaxed by now," Peter was saying, and John had to exercise extreme self control not to whip his head around towards him. He realised Charlie was staring at him expectantly.  
"Sorry what?"  
After school that day John locked himself in his room as soon as he got home, thankful his father wasn't around to waylay him this afternoon. He forcefully put Mr M out of his head and did his homework, working until his eyes had started to itch and his back ached. He finished his point in the essay he was working on and put it aside, standing up and stretching out his back. John sprawled out on his bed with his laptop propped on his belly, looking through a few things before he ended up on his blog. The entries from the last few weeks were fairly sparse, with little colour to them except the mention of his dates with Lisa - of course no word of what had happened Sunday evening. He tapped his thumb against the space bar of his keyboard for a moment as he thought about that. She'd come to him Monday looking a little downtrodden, having been less that kindly shut down by the girl she'd been interested in. But at the same time she'd been obviously pleased to have gotten it off her chest. She'd started sitting with them at breaks every now and again since, and her and Charlie had become firm friends. John was glad - Lisa deserved to have people in her life who weren't going to judge her for the choices she made. Of course, his mind immediately skidded from this over to Mr M. John tried to write a blog entry about something else, but he shortly gave up and shut his laptop off, changing and climbing into bed instead. If he could just go to sleep, then he wouldn't think about anything, and everything would go according to plan. No problem.  
John's subconscious, however, did not get the memo. Because he dreamt. Oh, did he dream. He dreamt of those all seeing eyes, that piercing gaze trained on him, those perfectly manicured fingers trailing over his skin, tracing the scars on his chest, his belly, his hips... In his dreams, John didn't make any effort to play down his attraction to his quiet, mysterious teacher. He didn't stop him or push him away. He just let him touch. 

John's eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling - disappointingly devoid of a certain someone's face - his heart pounding against his ribs. He swallowed hard, then murmured aloud, "Shit." This was most definitely not part of the plan. He rolled onto his side and curled up, keeping his hands determinedly away from his crotch and closing his eyes. He wouldn't think about it. He just wouldn't. He did. The next time he woke - to the sound of his alarm - he'd rolled onto his stomach and was enthusiastically rutting into his mattress. He groaned and pressed his face into his pillow, forcing himself to still his hips. This was just a little more than a bit not good. John gathered his clothes for the day, holding them subtly in front of himself as he made his way down to the bathroom, relieved that his parents weren't around to see him on the way. He took a long, cold shower, walking himself through every possible thing he could think of to bring himself out of that head space. But by the time he had to shut off the shower and dressed for school, the heat that had settled in his belly remained determinedly in place. School today was going to be very, very difficult. He scraped together what he could for lunch, bidding his mother farewell as she shuffled out into the living room looking bedraggled and clearly sporting a hangover. He didn't want to speak to anyone today. He was worried that if he did he'd somehow let slip the things he'd been dreaming about. His body seemed like it was traitorous enough to do such a thing. He kept his head down as he walked to school, watching his feet moving over the pavement and not letting himself think of anything but his even gait. He managed to weave his way through the crowded halls and slump into a chair amongst his friends, closing his eyes and letting their conversation wash over him. A nervous jitter built up in his stomach, and there it stubbornly remained all day. He was quiet and uncharacteristically jumpy. His friends gave him shit for it once or twice, but he found their teasing to be pleasantly distracting and allowed it. He knew how to banter and bicker, and practicing those things was sufficient to keep his mind off what was causing him to behave so oddly.  
Right up until his last class of the day with Mr M.  
The moment the teacher walked into class John's mind was flooded with memories of his dream and almost immediately eager teenaged blood ran south. He tugged off his jumper and bunched it hurriedly into his lap. It didn't help that Mr M seemed in especially high spirits today, and, much worse, he was wearing a particularly tight set of suit trousers - always with those damn suits - that showed off his arse in the most flattering manner. And, John swore, if he squinted a little he could just see the outline of Mr M's - John cursed himself, hastily forcing his eyes down to his desk. Oh good god I am so screwed. John was sure he was blushing the entire lesson. He very seriously considered throwing up every time Mr M asked a question, more so if the teacher was looking at him when he did so. Does he always look at me this much? John wondered. I'm probably just over thinking this because of... that thing. Right? Either way, John had a very hard time focusing on the lesson. But at least by the time the bell rang he was composed enough to walk out without embarrassing himself, so that was something. He did not, however, get the chance. Because as he was packing his bag, Mr M announced, "Mr Watson. I need to speak with you," in his calm, firm voice, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear and brooking no argument. Head down to hide his fierce blush, John gave a soft, resigned sigh and shoved his things into his bag. Throwing it over his shoulder he walked up to the teachers desk.  
"Yes, sir?"  
"I'm concerned about your grades in my class, John. They've dropped rather significantly over the time time I've been here," Mr M explained. Had they? John certainly hadn't noticed. Sure, he'd been pretty distracted in Mr M's classes, even though he'd tried not to be. But he'd still worked just as hard as he ever had, so he didn't know how that possibly could have happened.  
"Oh," John replied, at something of a loss for words. The idea that his grades were dropping sent a bolt of cold, panicky fear slicing through his chest. He needed to keep his grades up to get into med school. He needed to do well to get out of his parents house. And he really, really needed to get out of there. He swallowed hard, and Mr M must have seen something in his eyes, because his professional demeanour softened a little.  
"Don't look so concerned, it's hardly the end of the world. I'm offering you extra help, if you want it. Sessions after school, no more than an hour or two a night. Just to get you back on track. Would that interest you?" he asked, offering John just a glimmer of a smile. John's mind went in two directions as once. Yes, he needed extra help if his grades were dropping. He had to get top marks to get into med school. He couldn't say no to this offer, for the sake of his future. For the sake of the hope he'd been clinging to for years that was the only thing keeping him afloat with his home life in the state it was. But then there was the fact it would be just him and Mr M, alone, for an hour at least. And while that appealed to the part of his brain that wanted the teacher, both in a romantic and a sexual way, he knew that it would only serve to make it harder for him not to want him in either of those fashions. He didn't really have a choice, though. Long term relief from this place was worth short term discomfort. He forced his lips into a small smile.  
"Sure. Thanks, Mr M. That'd be great."  
"All right. We'll organise a time next week. Now off you go, enjoy your weekend," Mr M replied, his smile growing a little as he shooed John out the door. 

_Plan C isn't going work,_ John's blog entry from that evening read. _The Objective seems unwilling to allow any of the mission plans thus far to succeed. Plan D is my final remaining option. Although it is easily the least appealing option available to me, it is all I have left. My last ditch effort. And I am certain that this plan will succeed where all others have not. It has to. This will be my last mission regarding The Objective. Success or bust._ Bust indeed. Heartbreak. John had come too far now for this to result in anything but.  
Plan C had been avoidance, and all that had resulted in was John having what was possibly the most arousing dream he'd had in his entire life, including the ones very early in his puberty that had had him blushing for weeks. Now he had just one last method of convincing himself that he could never have Mr M, and therefore he ought not get so caught up in the idea of it. And it was going to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon reflection I know far too many ways to say someone has an erection.  
> Next chapter there will be things. And they will be happening.


	10. Try, Try Again

John was nervous when he walked into school on Monday. He'd hung out with Charlie on the weekend, and she'd grilled him about what had happened with Lisa. She'd given her side of the story already - John was relieved to hear she'd left out the more intimate details - and Charlie wanted to hear his side of it. Lisa had refused to tell Charlie if John had had a reason for not wanting to be with her, only that she was interested in someone else. And apparently it had taken Charlie ages to get just that information out of her. After much twisting of arms John caved and admitted that he fancied someone, but flat out refused to say who. Only that he'd tried a bunch of stuff to get them out of his head and now he was on the last possible option.  
He had English last period, and it was on his mind all day. Every time he thought about it butterflies stirred up in his gut and he went a bit giddy. In truth, he was dying to talk to someone about it - preferably Charlie, who would gush and fuss but never judge. But he knew he couldn't. He just couldn't. This was too... too big. Too much. Too different to any other crush he'd ever discussed with her, too off-limits. Irritatingly, that forbidden fruit factor had now begun to cause a little thrill up his spine when he considered it. It wasn't helping. But in light of his new plan he supposed that was fine, really. All fine. He lingered over packing up in Biology, his last few moments before he stepped unto the breach once more. This is going to hurt, John, he warned himself in a stern, army commander's voice. It's going to hurt like a bastard but it's the only way and you'll learn from that. The hurt will make you stronger. As he made his way overly slowly to Mr M's class, he forced himself to let all that worry go, let himself be swallowed up in that light, jittery feeling of his crush - which he figured was a little more than a crush now, but he wasn't going to dwell on that. This was all part of the plan. This was the only way to get over him. When he finally arrived he was late - the first time he'd been so to Mr M's class since the man had started teaching here. The teacher gave him a stern look and John met his eyes directly, allowing his gaze to linger a noticeable moment longer than he had in a good while. "Sorry, Mr M," he said genuinely, hurrying just a fraction to his seat and sitting down. Those impossible, mind-reading eyes studied John for a long moment, even as Mr M went on with his lesson. John gave up any pretence that it was unnerving and gave the man a tiny flicker of a smile, letting that fluttery feeling in his gut rear up at the attention. Oh boy. I am long gone. So much further gone than I ever thought. John gave the slightest of sighs and pulled out his book, determined to get his grades back up at the same time as implementing Plan D. 

After class he'd expected Mr M to want to organise those sessions they'd talked about, so he lingered a little longer over packing away his things. Once the class was cleared and the teacher was looking ready to walk out the door himself, John walked straight up to him. "Sir," he said politely, only tipping his head down the slightest fraction and looking up at Mr M through his lashes, totally accidentally. "Why do you have us call you Mr M? Why won't you tell us your last name?" he asked. He wasn't asking for that last name, even though he desperately wanted to know it was. He was just asking why. He felt sure the other man would tell him just that. But Mr M just gave a soft chuckle and shook his head.  
"That would be telling, wouldn't it Mr Watson?"

It hadn't been until John had returned home that afternoon that he'd realised they hadn't discussed out of class help like they'd planned to. And thus it was that John suffered through almost another full day not knowing if he'd ever see the teacher outside of class. He never seemed to pass him in the halls before or after class, or during breaks. It was almost bizarre. And suddenly it seemed to matter a whole lot more now that he was giving in to his attraction rather than trying to ignore it. When it finally was English time again, John was just as thirteen-year-old-girl-with-a-crush fluttery as he had been before. Mr M was strolling around the classroom, checking work over shoulders. John had only shifted slightly, but in such a way that had caused his phone to fall from his pocket it had been precariously hanging from. That was genuinely all it was. He leant down and picked it up, wiping the screen on the leg of his trousers and checking briefly for scratches. He hadn't even hit a button to illuminate the screen. But Mr M was on him like a shot, holding that beautifully manicured hand out expectantly. Pale and slim and lovely, John couldn't help but remember dreaming about those hands on his skin. There'd been more of those dreams over the weekend, too. Lavish and extravagant, everything John's dreams usually weren't. It took him an instant too long to realise he was staring rather than reacting. "I wasn't -" he began, but Mr M just tutted and flexed his hand. With a soft sigh John handed over the phone. Mr M took it and put it on his desk before returning to his slow pacing. Every now and again John's eyes wandered away from his page and over to his fancy suit wearing educator, and his mind wandered with it. Jesus, had always been this distracted in English? No wonder he wasn't getting good marks any more. Eventually the bell sounded and John hurriedly packed his things, needing to get to an assessment next period. Mr M was holding out his phone almost lazily as John approached, eyes on his computer screen. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Watson," he said calmly as John passed him. His brows furrowed together as he headed to Drama. What did that mean? Why had he said that to John specifically, and no one else? It wasn't until school was out that he got the opportunity to even look at his phone again. When he opened it he found it on a newly saved contact screen - a number and name he didn't recognise immediately. After a beat he twigged. It was Mr M's number. And his contact name?  
Mr Moriarty. 

John walked home on a damn cloud that afternoon. Moriarty. He'd given John - and only John, for that matter - his last name, without even being asked. And it was a good name, too. Kind of... dark and mysterious. Like the man himself. John was struck by the overwhelming urge to twirl on his toes but he resisted because he was still in public. He felt like he was going to float away. There was a tiny lingering dread hanging around in a back corner of his mind. Every time he went home feeling this good some shit went down that ruined it entirely. He pushed the feeling away, though - why not enjoy this moment while he still could? None the less, when he entered the house it was with trepidation. The living room stank of cigars, which meant his father had been given a bonus at work. Neither of his parents were home, though, so that was a great relief. Maybe he'd actually be allowed to enjoy something for once. John went up to his room and threw the window open wide, shutting his door and airing out what traces of that heavy smell had made its way upstairs. He flopped down onto his back on his bed and grinned up at the ceiling. Moriarty, he repeated in his head. My Mr Moriarty. After a long, long time he pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed out a message. He deleted and retyped it four times before finally pressing send.  
[Hardly an orthodox way to give someone your number, sir. JW]  
He grinned goofily to himself, phone on his chest with one hand resting over it. Like he was protecting it, keeping it close to his heart. He'd never valued the shitty twenty quid brick more. He valued it more highly still when it buzzed against his chest and he lifted it into his field of vision to see he'd received a text from Mr Moriarty. John thought he might just burst as he opened it.  
[And in what way before this have I come across as orthodox, Mr Watson? JM]  
I could die right now and I'd be a happy man, John decided blissfully. Surely this is what heaven would be like. John squirmed on his bed just a little, trying to decide what to say in response to that when his phone buzzed again.  
[Now, we'd best organise those help sessions, don't you think? JM]  
JM. So his first initial was J. Two clues in one day. Entirely unprompted. John really could just die here and now.  
[Yes, sir. What time works for you? JW]  
[Straight after school would be best. Are you free tomorrow? JM]  
For you sir, I'm always free, John thought to himself with a smirk.  
[Yes, that works. JW]  
[Excellent. I'll see you in my class after school tomorrow, then. JM]  
[See you then. JW]  
John beamed at his phone and rolled onto his side, curling around it as though it were a tiny version of the man himself. Okay, sure, so they were only really meeting for the sake of John's grades. But they _were_ meeting. Outside of school hours. And that was good enough for him. After a lot of lying there feeling smug John managed to peel himself out of bed and sit down at his desk to go through his homework. His phone sat right by his hand, just in case. 

Later, lying on his belly on his bed with his laptop set up in front of him, cell phone still close at hand, John merrily typed up another blog entry. _Plan D is either working perfectly or going completely to hell. Too soon to really tell, but so far things look good. Really, really damn good._ He was having trouble not rolling around like a child from how excited he was. It was kind of ridiculous really. He still didn't stand a single chance with the guy, but every little thing he was getting made his heart lift. It took him a long time to get to sleep that night, but when he did he dreamed of Moriarty again. Laying John out over his desk after school, slowly taking off his clothes as if he was unwrapping a precious gift. Covering every inch of skin with his mouth. That lean, suit clad form, still mostly dressed while John was completely naked, hovering over him. Taking him on the desk. John woke up hard and wanting, but this time he didn't take a cold shower or force himself to ignore it. He shoved the fleshy part of his hand, beneath the thumb, into his mouth to plug up the moans slipping from his lips. Then he pushed his hand down into his pants and without preamble closed his eyes and stroked, conjuring up that image again until he was painting the insides of his clothing with come. He lay there panting and grinned to himself. Plan D was shaping up to be his clear favourite. 

Everyone could tell that he was in a good mood the next day. Despite the slowly deepening bruise rising on his cheekbone - his father had caught him as he left the house and insisted he stay at home that day, and when John had refused he'd received a swift punch to the face before he'd managed to duck around him and out the door - he was in high spirits. The encounter with his father hadn't even put a damper on things. His first period teacher, Kenyth, asked him about the bruise without much interest, and John bluffed and said he'd caught a cricket ball to the face. Could have been worse. The teacher let it go and John went happily to his next lesson - with Mr Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I did a sexy thing. Kind of. These are only going to get worse. Sorry. 
> 
> Also I just want to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read this so far, and for your lovely comments and kudos. This is a really big deal for me and I love the shit out of you guys.


	11. After School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to think twenty four chapters isn't going to be anywhere near enough. Things keep happening that weren't in the original plan.   
> Some of the things I've googled for this fic... I'm glad I no longer live with my parents.

John was starting to notice a pattern when he came into English after a run in with his father. He'd be sitting at his desk and Mr Moriarty - he had to keep reminding himself not to use that name out loud - would come into the room, and his eyes would go immediately to John's desk. Maybe they always went immediately to John's desk. He didn't want to let his imagination get too carried away with this. Either that or he had some sort of actual mind reading super power, and John wasn't prepared to rule that option out yet. In fact it seemed significantly more feasible than the first explanation. Whatever the cause, Moriarty's eyes dropped to John the moment he walked in the room, his focus zeroing in on the blossoming bruise on his cheek. His lips twitched the slightest fraction, and something flashed in his eyes for an instant. Something terrifying and dark that made John a little squirmy. He swallowed hard, and the look was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Moriarty walked to his desk, already starting in on his lesson. But his eyes kept sliding back to John, and every time he looked up he found himself caught in the teacher's gaze. And the guy complained his marks were dropping. How could he blame John for that when he kept looking at him like he was? It was nothing if not distracting and it was hardly his fault. John's stomach did a flip every time he caught Moriarty's eyes and he was all but dying to somehow skip ahead to the end of the day, when he would get to have the teacher alone. Have, he repeated in his mind, a slow smirk crawling across his lips. A hopeful shudder ran down his spine and his mind ran away with idea for a long moment before Charlie elbowed him. "Mr M keeps looking at you like he's trying to see inside your head," she murmured softly. "Might want to at least pretend like you're paying attention. Anyone can see you're away with the fairies right now." John blinked a couple times and blushed the tiniest fraction, making Charlie smirk.   
"Yeah, thanks," he muttered, looking down at his page and quickly finishing the line of notes he'd been working on before his imagination had gotten carried away.   
"So, you ever going to tell me who it is?" Charlie asked him softly when Mr M had finished explaining and left them to their work.   
"Probably not," John replied simply, giving her a brief flash of a smile.   
"Try not to get hurt, okay? Because I've seen that look on your face before, John. I hate to bring it up and all, but back when you were in love Mary? And don't you try and argue, we all know you were."  
"I'm not in love with him," he replied firmly, avoiding the Mary topic entirely. Not a good memory to dwell on.   
"Sure," Charlie replied, turning back to her page. John's stomach lurched. That relationship had ended so badly, so painfully for him. He was certain his infatuation with Moriarty was only going to go the same way. But Charlie was wrong.   
He was _not_ in love with his stupid, gorgeous, enticingly mysterious English teacher. He barely even knew him. 

The rest of the day passed far too slowly for John's liking, but finally the end of school bell sounded and he had to try not to run to Moriarty's classroom. He hovered outside the door a moment, trying to calm his nerves before knocking. He heard a muted mutter from within, then that familiar voice called, "Come in."  
John pushed open the door and stepped inside, finding Moriarty sat behind his desk with a hand over the receiver of his phone. "Oh, sorry, I can-" he began, pointing back towards the door. But Mr Moriarty gave him a genuine smile and for a moment John didn't have a hope of moving anywhere. "Ah, Mr Watson. No, you're fine. Sit down, I won't be a moment," the teacher replied, gesturing to the chair he'd set on the other side of his desk. He returned to his phone call.   
"I have to go. I'll call you back," he said in a stern tone, ringing off before the person on the other end of the line had a chance to respond. Sliding his phone into his pocket, he turned a small, apologetic smile on John. "Sorry about that."  
"Not at all," John replied, shifting slightly in his seat. Moriarty had a habit of very abrupt changes in demeanour, it could be quite disarming. The other man's eyes focused intently on John's bruise, which by now had spread up his cheek to his eye. There was a familiar quiver in John's belly.   
"I want you to report him, John."   
It took John's mind a couple of beats to catch up and he tenderly poked the bruise. "It's nothing."  
"It's so much more than nothing. You can't allow him to keep treating you like a punching bag," Moriarty returned, and that fire was back in his eyes, that barely contained rage burning just beneath the surface.   
"I can't report him either," John replied just as firmly. Moriarty looked as though he might say something more, but instead he just a gave a resigned sigh. He reached into his desk drawer and handed John a fresh tube of the arnica cream he'd used when John was last injured.   
"Do you just keep a first aid kit in there?" John asked, accepting it without question and carefully applying a little to his eye before handing it back. It no longer struck him as unusual that Mr Moriarty provided him with such things.   
"It's a recent development," Moriarty informed him with a slight smile in the corners of his mouth. He returned the cream to his drawer. "Now, we should probably get to the point. How are you doing on your essay plan?"  
A recent development? Did that mean he'd only started keeping medical supplies in his desk when John had shown up covered in bruises more often than not? Why would he do that? John's mind whirred as he dug into his bag and produced the mentioned essay plan. He walked Mr Moriarty through what he had in mind, and the teacher nodded along, occasionally offering pointers on what would be a better point to make or direction to take. After about a half hour of discussion Mr Moriarty nodded, hands laced together on top of his desk. "All right, well I think you've got that pretty much sorted now," he said, offering John another one of those little half smiles that made his student go somewhat weak at the knees. "Do you have any questions for me?"  
About a thousand, John replied silently, knowing full well none of them were the kind Mr M was expecting. He shook his head. "No, I don't think so."  
Moriarty's hand reached out towards him and John didn't recoil the way he did from sudden movement in other men. He just stayed still as gentle fingers cupped his jaw and turned it slightly so the teacher could get a better look at his eye. John's heart fluttered in the most inappropriate manner as he couldn't help but think of those hands on other parts of his body.   
"You're fortunate he missed your eye," Moriarty murmured, his tone almost thoughtful. The teacher pulled his hand away, far too soon in John's opinion, but he held back his complaint. "Same time tomorrow?" Moriarty suggested, as professional as if he hadn't just touched John's face as gently as a lover might. God damn the man was smooth.   
"Sure," John agreed, relieved when his voice didn't waver.   
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow," Mr Moriarty replied, and as John began to pack up his bag another of those elusive, rare smiles that seemed to beam out of the man's soul spread across his lips. John's stomach flooded with butterflies and he felt a little light headed for a moment. Gathering his composure he closed his bag and stood, hooking it over his shoulder.   
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Moriarty." Oh, the name sounded even better out loud. The fact that only he knew it made it feel secret, special. Like Moriarty had trusted him with something precious. Something different flickered behind those all seeing eyes before the teacher gave him a nod. John left. He felt like his knees were going to buckle. Oh, he had it _bad_. 

"What's up with you?"   
John blinked a couple of times, drawn from his reverie by Mike's curious voice. "What?"  
"I said, what's up with you? You've been acting all... weird," Mike elaborated without explaining a single thing.   
"That's real descriptive, mate, but I don't know what you're talking about," John countered. Mike waved a hand at him. "Yeah, you do. What's been going on with you? Catch me up. Something's getting you all far away and rosy cheeked. Or is it someone?"  
John fought off a tell-tale blush. He'd been doing that a lot lately. It was lunch time on Thursday and he'd just left another lesson with Mr Moriarty feeling on top of the god damn world. Sometimes there was this particular look in the teacher's eyes when they settled on John that just made him go to putty. John cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at Mike.   
"I'm not some maiden in one of your bloody romance novels, Mike."  
Mike rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Come on, fess up. Who is it then?"   
"Piss off," John returned with a smile, turning his head back to his book. If he ever told anyone, it most definitely would not be Mike. Sure, he was one of John's best mates. But he was not someone to keep a secret. He didn't do it on purpose, he just sort of talked. A lot. Often when he shouldn't. Mike made to protest, but John ignored him. Moriarty had texted him last night, after he'd got home from their private lesson.   
[I want you to report him. JM]  
His insistence was oddly touching, even though John was just as insistent that he couldn't. And they were meeting again that afternoon. John was just a bit more excited for it than he should be. He fidgeted his way through his last two lessons of the day, having to cross the best part of the school to get back to Moriarty's classroom. When he arrived the door was open so he walked in, having to swallow down a more enthusiastic flutter in his chest when Mr Moriarty looked up and smiled at him. "Mr Watson," he greeted, gesturing to the chair he'd once again set in front of his desk. John sat down, accepting the cream Moriarty once again passed across to him without comment. As he rubbed a little onto the bruise which had steadily crept further up over his eye, Mr Moriarty flicked through his lesson plan book. "So, did you understand everything we covered in class today?" he asked.   
"Pretty much, yeah. I did just want to go over something with you though," John replied, replacing the cap and handing the tube back to his teacher. John pulled out his book and showed Moriarty what he'd done in class, explaining a point he hadn't had a chance to dispute.   
"Oh yes, you're right," Moriarty said as he looked over John's notes. "You're absolutely right. I never thought about it like that." He lifted his gaze to John's and gave him a broad smile, the kind of full wattage grin that would have knocked him over if he wasn't already sitting down. It took an instant for John to be able to coax his facial muscles into returning the smile, briefly trapped under Mr M's gaze. But he wasn't complaining. They went over a few other things, eventually breaking down into what was actually a friendly conversation, if completely non-personal. John was revisiting his dying happy theory. After an hour and a half Moriarty seemed to realise and glanced at his watch - very nice, expensive looking. How did this guy afford all this on a teacher's salary? "I'm sorry, I'll let you go. Do you have any more questions for me, John?"  
"Oh no it's fine, you're not keeping me from anything," John replied, tongue darting out over his lips. "You needn't apologise. But I do have one last question," he said, leaning forward and crossing his arms casually on the desk. "This is a public school, Mr Moriarty. It's nothing fancy. Why do you always dress so well for class?"  
Moriarty's eyes brightened a little and he replied, "The education of students in a public school is no less important than that of those in private schools. So why not?" There was a pause, then he added, "That, and I look good in a suit, don't you think?"   
And then Mr Moriarty winked. Conspirational, joking, in any other circumstance John would have thought flirty. John felt for a second like his heart had fallen out of his chest. For a long moment he couldn't breathe, and the only thinking going on was courtesy of his downstairs brain.   
Oh, shit.


	12. He Looks Good in a Suit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I'm enjoying writing this fic, and am glad to finally be getting up to the part where Things (with a capital T) start happening, writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. Dunno why, just happens sometimes. So please excuse any awkward phrasings and other mess ups, there was really only so much I could do with this one.

The silence had gone on too long and John knew it. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't come up with anything. Moriarty was looking at him with an almost blank expression, except for the smug smirk curling across his lips. "I believe you were going, Mr Watson?"   
"Uh- um," John stammered, snapping his mouth shut. "Right, yeah. Of course." He stood up, pulling his bag over his shoulder. He was trying to reboot his brain after that wink had momentarily disabled it. Mr Moriarty couldn't possibly have just told him that he knew about John's feelings for him. Surely he was just messing around and John was over thinking it. Right? "Uh... thanks, sir."   
"Not a problem, John. Tomorrow, same time?" Mr Moriarty returned without faltering.   
"Uh yeah, sure," John agreed, leaving before he made an even bigger fool of himself. That had not just happened. He didn't know how to react if it had. As was fairly clear from the way he _had_ reacted. Christ - what if Moriarty knew? Shouldn't he be... Turning him down by now? Politely rejecting him, maybe even moving him into another English class? Yes, he decided. That was exactly what Mr M would be doing if he did, in fact, know that John fancied him. So, therefore, he couldn't possibly know. John let out a breath. He was fine. Everything was fine. After a few moments of contemplating this, John frowned to himself. This earned him an odd look from the woman passing him on the street, but he ignored it. Why was he even worried about Moriarty knowing? It was sort of part of the plan, that he know. As much as John didn't want to be kicked out of his class, he had to wonder if it wouldn't help matters. Upon arriving home, John tried his front door and found it locked, which meant everyone was out. Good. As he fished his key out of his pocket, he decided it was unlikely that Mr Moriarty would have him moved out of his class, no matter what the reason. It would mean he'd have to reorganise John's whole time table, and other classes might be at different stages in the curriculum... John let himself in and headed straight up to his room. He wouldn't be moved out of Moriarty's class, he was certain of it. So maybe he ought to... give the guy a bit of a shove towards kicking his heart in the balls. Get this over and done with. Like ripping off a band-aid. 

John's father didn't return home before John went to sleep, but his mother did. And when she arrived, all John could hear was her stumbling footsteps and high pitched giggling. It made his stomach roll. Great. He locked his bedroom door and finished his homework before settling on his bed with his laptop and a sigh. He pulled up his internet browser and created a post on his blog. _I don't think mother is ever going to stop swimming. She has to know how bad it is for her. The last time she went to the doctor he practically told her it was going to kill her. She doesn't seem to care. Not that I can really blame her, I suppose. If I had no way out... If I had to put up with someone like him for the rest of my life, I don't think I'd handle it so well either._

John could count on one hand the meals he'd had that week. His friends had given him bits and pieces of their own lunches, and that had been enough to keep him going. But by the time John walked into his last period English class on Friday afternoon, that hollow feeling in his stomach had chased its way right into his bones. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to not feel hungry. He'd spent the day distracting himself from his empty stomach by focusing his attention on his classes, the dumb conversations and arguments his friends had, their plans for Saturday night, anything he could. But it was becoming very difficult to keep doing so, even in Mr Moriarty's class. And until now the teacher had proven to be the best distraction of all. Somehow he managed to make his way through class, though, deciding he needed to blow off his after school session with Moriarty so he could go straight home and dig into his emergency supplies. John was pretty sure this warranted the use of them. He just had to hope he could make it home without passing out. The room had emptied out before John even realised class was over, and he shook his head in an effort to clear it. He got up, walking over to Moriarty's desk to tell him he couldn't stay. "Sir? I'm sorry, but -" he was interrupted by a knock on the door.   
"Just a moment, Mr Watson. Take a seat," Mr Moriarty replied, walking to the door and pulling it open. John sighed and dropped into the chair that was set next to Mr Moriarty's desk, rather than opposite it. He was sure he could wait a couple more minutes. There were voices and the rustling of a plastic bag, and then Moriarty was setting a white box in front of him. John looked up at him in confusion.   
"I hope you like Chinese food," the teacher said, handing him a set of chopsticks that John took slowly. Moriarty went to his own place and sat down, pulling his own box open and separating his chopsticks. "Dig in, before it gets cold. Then we'll get to work."  
John slowly turned his gaze down to what he now recognised as a takeaway container. He pulled it open with the sort of hesitance one might address a box thought to contain a nest of irritated snakes. It was, indeed, completely full of Chinese food, and it felt like the greatest gift he'd ever been given.   
"Mr Moriarty, I can't -" he began, fighting against the increasingly loud part of himself demanding he stuff his face immediately. But Moriarty waved his chopsticks at him.   
"Hush. Eat," he instructed. John knew he should be arguing more, but the only words that made it off his tongue were an almost reverent "Thank you," before he was doing as he was told. One thing about being hungry was that it taught you to appreciate food when you had it. And at that moment John swore he'd never tasted anything more delicious. 

"Thank you again, sir. I'll pay you back," John said once the food had been set aside. Mr Moriarty waved his hand dismissively.   
"No you won't. I thought it was only fair I buy you dinner considering I'm keeping you here late," he replied. "Now, coursework. Have you started on your film study yet?"  
John didn't really have much of an opportunity to argue with that. So he just nodded and pulled out his work book, feeling like a whole new person now that he'd eaten. "Yeah, I started it last night. I've done the first plan for the cinematography side of things," he said, turning his workbook to face Moriarty. They discussed the film study for a while, and when John went over what he had planned for the rest of it, Mr Moriarty didn't have a single thing to correct him on. "You've clearly been paying attention, John. You've included absolutely everything I needed you to include. Well done," he said, once again giving him that particular smile that made John go weak at the knees. Every single time. He was glad he'd been sitting down whenever Moriarty had used that one on him.   
"Thank you, sir," he replied, giving his best flirty smile in return. Moriarty's eyebrows twitched for a moment then his smile widened a little.   
"So, have you got any questions for me?"  
Fuck it. All or nothing, John thought. He leant toward his teacher a little and replied, "Well I'd really like to know what the J stands for, Mr Moriarty."  
"I believe I've given you enough clues, Mr Watson," he returned evenly. John's heart skipped a beat when he didn't lean away from him. If anything, he leant a little closer. Is this really happening? Have I gone delusional? John wondered. The tip of his tongue darted out over his lips, and he swore to God that Moriarty's gaze followed it the whole way. I've died. I've died and this is some happy dream while I fade from existence.   
"I have to admit, I was tempted to Google you. But I resisted the urge," John told him, heart beating in his chest like it was attempting to make an escape.   
"You're clever, John. I'm sure you'll come up with a way to work it out," Moriarty replied, and John had never heard a man speak in something so close to a purr as he just had. His mouth felt dry. Suddenly it seemed direly important that he find out Mr Moriarty's first name. He gave a shallow nod. "I'm sure I will, sir."  
Moriarty smirked, then sat back in his chair. "Now, have you got any course related questions for me?" he asked, that smirk still playing over his lips.   
"Ah - no, sir."  
"Right then. I suppose I'll let you go, then."  
What? Just like that? Had John been imagining everything he'd just seen? Was Moriarty just messing with him? John fought off the disappointment that threatened to swamp him with pointed elbows.   
"I don't like second week Mondays," he informed Moriarty as he packed his things back into his bag.   
"And why is that, Mr Watson?" Moriarty asked.   
"No English lesson," John explained, standing and giving Mr Moriarty a smile that was just as lacking in subtlety as his words. Moriarty had tipped his head back against his chair a little to look up at John. His lips pulled upwards a little. "Then I suppose we'll just have to make our next session Monday afternoon, won't we?"  
John really wished he'd been sitting down for that. But he managed to hold his composure. Barely. "That will certainly help," he replied.   
"I'll see you on Monday then, John." 

John lay on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some clarity. He still wasn't entirely certain that all of that - or any of it, for that matter - had happened. For all he knew it could have been a hunger-induced hallucination. It happened when you were dehydrated, so why not this? Except he wasn't hungry any more. And he hadn't touched his emergency supplies. Which meant that at least the part where Moriarty had bought him dinner had actually happened. And everything after that... despite being the least plausible part of the whole thing, it was the most real in his mind. So... Moriarty hadn't rebuked his blatant flirting. He'd complimented him, exhibited body language that suggested he was just as interested, even issued him a challenge to discover his name rather than telling him it wasn't relevant to class work the way he had others. John no longer had any idea of what the hell was going on with that man. He was the most confused he'd been in the face of an emotional attachment in a long time. But for some dumb reason, he liked it. It was like Moriarty was making himself into a puzzle for John. And John only got to the full picture if he solved it for himself. "Well, I suppose I'd better get to work thinking up a way to find out his name, then," he muttered to himself. He flipped onto his stomach and dragged over his English work book. He opened it to the back and twirled a pen between his fingers as he thought. Well, there was still Google, but he felt like that would be cheating. Especially now that Moriarty had said he wanted John to work it out for himself. It was another couple of moments before the metaphorical light bulb came on over his head. Rumpelstiltskin. He'd write lists of J names, and have Moriarty tell him if his name was or wasn't in each list, then he could narrow it down from that. He thought that was kind of clever, actually. Grinning to himself, he began to compile a list.   
_John. Jacob. Jeremy. Jared. Jackson. Joseph. James. Jamie. Jack. Jayden. Jasper..._


	13. Nights Like These

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some underage drinking in this one. Also some feels. Another gigantic thank you to everyone who's reading this, your comments are seriously making my life.

"John!" Mary's voice was already slurred when John reached them. His friends were scattered around a camp fire in the makeshift fire pit they'd built a couple of years ago on the top of a hill. It was well out of the way of any real civilization, which was why John was late. He beamed at the familiar faces looking up at his arrival, knocked a little off balance when Mary all but flew at him. He chuckled and caught her, but then was stunned momentarily speechless by the sloppy kiss she pressed to his lips. "Come on," she said with a grin, dropping back to her feet and grabbing his free hand - his other one was wrapped around a bottle of whiskey he'd pinched off his mother - to drag him over to the camp fire. He followed her dumbly, shaking his head and writing it off as her being drunk off her arse.  
"Mate!" Mike greeted him, also clearly well on his way. He held out a beer bottle. John managed to disentangle his hand from Mary's and accept it, giving Charlie a glance. The fire reflected back at him in her eyes and she responded with a knowing smile, patting the ground beside her. "Come and sit with me," she demanded, and he gratefully did so, digging the whiskey into the dry dirt behind himself a little where none of the others could pinch it until he decided to share.  
"Thanks," John muttered in Charlie's ear. They both looked back across the fire at Mary who was pouting and sitting down against Peter's side.  
"No problem. She's been going on about you for a half hour. I think she reckons you still want her."  
John gave a short, hard laugh and opened the beer. "Yeah, right. You got a drink?" he asked. Charlie raised her own beer. John clinked his bottle against it. "To nights like this."  
"To nights like this," Charlie agreed, and they drank. It wasn't long before Lisa shuffled over and plonked on Charlie's other side.  
"Hey John."  
"Hi Lisa. How's life?" he replied, leaning back on one hand. She gave him a bright grin, and he realised the flush in her cheeks wasn't just from the fire.  
"Hard for anything to be wrong when I've got a good quarter bottle of bourbon in me," she replied. "How about you?" The familiar low fear that his friends would become the kinds of messes his mother became when drunk curled into John's belly, but he pushed it aside. They always looked out for each other. They'd always been fine. Tonight shouldn't be any different. He returned Lisa's grin. "Get back to me on that one when I've had a bit more to drink," he replied, lifting his bottle to his lips again. Liam pulled his guitar into his lap, idly strumming out a tune as he chatted to Peter and Mary. John had seen Liam so drunk he could barely walk, and yet somehow in that state he was still capable of playing that guitar. This was the first time in a long time that John had really had the chance to just let loose with his friends like this, and he was determined to enjoy it. He laughed as he watched Peter, Ray and Finn do some ridiculous dance around the fire to Liam's guitar. He drank the beer he was offered, passed around the bottle he'd brought and those the others had, filling Lisa in on their usual methods of obtaining booze while most of them were still under age. Eventually the loud laughter and dancing had settled down to softer, drunken mumbles. Haley and Finn had disappeared off somewhere - John didn't dwell on why - and Liam was plucking out a soft, senseless tune on his guitar. Mary had attempted no less than three times to drag John off by himself, but when he'd just kept turning her down she'd gotten pouty and given up. She'd tried it on with Peter instead, not even being subtle about the fact she was trying to make John jealous, but neither had worked. Ray and Peter were off hunting for more firewood, and it was generally pretty relaxed. It was good. John was lying with his head in Charlie's lap, looking up at the star drenched sky. He was quite thoroughly drunk by this point, feeling giddy and free.Charlie's hand was carding through his hair and he gave her a broad smile.  
"I think... I think I migh' actually have a chance with him," he told her softly, slurring just the slightest bit. Her lips curled up into a pleased smile. She hadn't been expecting John to start talking about this guy he was keen on unprompted.  
"I mean... the las' couple of times I've seen 'im, he's been real... nice. He's bin lookin' after me when I've bin hurt, you know? An' he bought me dinner out of the blue the other day, but I dunno... He's still bin really slow about it, if there is anything there..." He was having trouble with some letters, but it really didn't seem all that important at this stage. Charlie certainly didn't seem too bothered by it. She was grinning down at him, her fingers still running through his hair.  
"Dude. Sounds like you've got a chance to me," she told him. "Buying you dinner and taking care of you like that? It's the old fashioned way maybe, but it still means the same thing."  
John's heart leapt at the prospect. Was it possible? He couldn't come up with a good reason why not in his present state.  
"You reckon? Hey, Charlie, how d'you know if a guy's flirting with you?"  
Charlie burst into laughter. "You're asking _me_ that?"  
It took John a couple of moments before he realised what she meant by that, then he laughed too. "Righ'. I should really know this, shouldn't I?"  
"You really should," she agreed. John sighed, smiling up at the stars.  
"I don' wanna get my hopes up too far, you know? Just in case. But... I just want him so damn badly, Charlie. It's like a physical pull in my gut every time I see 'im."  
Charlie chuckled softly. "Sounds like you're in love to me, John."  
"Pfft. I am not," he argued. Fortunately he was saved from thinking on that too long when Lisa returned to sit beside Charlie again.  
"Hey."  
"Hello," John replied, tipping his head back a little so he could smile up at her. "All right?"  
"All right," she confirmed, giving him a slightly bleary smile. "You guys?"  
"Yeah," John told her. Charlie nodded her agreement.  
"So I have a question," Lisa began, dropping her head onto Charlie's shoulder. "What's the deal with you and Mary, John? Cos she's going on about how you weren't supposed to get over her and shit. Sounds like a total bitch."  
John chuckled and shook his head. "Nah, she's not. She's quite lovely really. We fell out. It happens." He was, of course, omitting the reason why they'd fallen out, but he didn't see any reason to bring it up. He was over it.  
"So you dated?" Lisa asked.  
"Yeah."  
"For ages," Charlie added. John waved a hand dismissively.  
"It wasn't that long." Only the longest relationship he'd ever had.  
"He was in love with her," Charlie went on.  
"I wasn't," John argued. She was nodding insistently to Lisa as if John couldn't see her. He rolled his eyes. "Ancient history."  
"He still can't talk about it."  
"Shut up, Charlie," John grumbled. She ruffled his head.  
"Love ya John."  
"Doesn't mean you shouldn't shut up."

By the small hours of the morning, they'd all peeled themselves off the hilltop and made sure everyone got home safe. Charlie lived a long way out from the rest of their places, and no one was sober enough to drive. So John had hauled out the old bed roll he had in the back of his closet and let her crash on his bedroom floor. Fortunately his father was MIA that morning, and his mother no doubt just as hungover as they would be when they stopped being drunk, so they escaped being dragged to church. Neither of them stirred until mid afternoon. Charlie insisted on buying him "breakfast" - she said it was because he'd let her stay, but they both knew it was his best chance of a decent meal - so after they'd cleaned up a bit they went out to a café down the road from John's place. He was still nursing his coffee when Charlie pounced. "You told me a fair bit about your bloke last night," she said, leaning towards him with her elbows planted on the table. "So, you going to tell me who your charming mystery man is now?"  
John groaned. "You know you're not supposed to listen to a single thing I say drunk," he complained, looking down into his mug.  
"Is that a yes?"  
"No, Charlie. Nothing's going to happen, anyway," he told her. She rolled her eyes at him.  
"You didn't seem so certain of that last night," Charlie reminded him.  
"Wishful thinking," he replied, leaning back so the waitress could place their food before them. He heard Charlie thank her, but he was too busy trying to drown his stupid, loose-lipped, drunk self in coffee.  
"Whatever, man," Charlie said once her attention was back on John. "But I want you to promise me something yeah? Two things, actually."  
John studied her warily for a moment. "What?"  
"First, don't let yourself get hurt. No matter what you say about it, I know what Mary did hurt like a bitch. And I don't want you to go through that shit again. Got it?"  
John gave a heavy sigh and smiled at her. "Yeah, I got it."  
"Good. Onto the second bit, then. Two, I want to meet him if you do end up together."  
John's heart jittered in his chest. He was never going to end up with Moriarty - it was impossible. So he'd never have to follow through on such a promise. He considered a little while longer before nodding. "Yeah, okay."  
Charlie grinned at him. They chatted and ate slowly, having another coffee apiece before John could consider himself fully human again. He raised an eyebrow as the waitress left Charlie the receipt.  
"Did she just leave you her number?" he asked, smirking across the table at his friend. Charlie's eyebrows shot upwards. "No."  
"I think she did. Turn it over," he instructed, nodding to the receipt. Charlie did.  
"Huh," she said as the movement revealed a neat line of numbers and the name from the waitress's badge. "Sure she didn't leave it for you?"  
John chuckled. "I may be unobservant at times, but I'm not blind. It's for you." Charlie's eyes strayed away from the receipt in her hands over to where their waitress was serving another table. "Sweet."

John walked home after dropping Charlie to the bus stop - as usual she'd left her homework until the last minute and now needed to go get it done. His father was still nowhere to be found when he returned, which was nothing less than a relief. He poked his head into the living room. His mother was curled up on the sofa with a wine glass in her hand and the bottle beside her, three quarters empty. She looked up when he walked in and smiled up at him. John's heart ached at how rare these smiles were - the ones where she wasn't all strung out from withdrawal, but she wasn't completely wasted either.  
"Hello love."  
"Hi mum," John replied, the childish part of him that he hadn't been able to completely banish desperately wanting to go to her. He gave in, walking across the room and sitting down on the couch beside her. She looked a little surprised by the action, but put her feet down and pulled him in close. John didn't resist, resting his head on her shoulder and looping an arm around her waist like it was a perfectly normal thing for them. His mother's arms encircled him like they had when he was a child, and she pressed a kiss into his hair. The action made his chest ache.  
"How have you been, John?" she asked softly. His stomach twisted at the fact they lived together and she still had no idea.  
"Good," he replied. It wasn't entirely a lie, he supposed. "I've been getting extra help in one of my classes. Went out with my friends last night. Charlie stayed over."  
"Charlie," his mother repeated, thinking it over for a moment. "Oh, yes. Lovely girl. Quite pretty. Are you and she...?"  
John chuckled. "No. Definitely not. We're just friends, mum."  
"All right. Is there anyone you're interested in?"  
She was in such a different space to the way she usually was - as good as sober, she'd washed, done her hair the way she used to. She was behaving like the mum he remembered her being when he was little. So he couldn't bring himself to lie to her.  
"Yes. But I don't think I've got any chance."  
"Bright, handsome boy like you? I'm sure you've got every chance with her, love. What's her name?" his mother asked. He smiled a little. He couldn't tell her it was actually a man he was interested in, much less his teacher. She would not hesitate to tell his father, and the way he'd reacted when Harry had come out to them... well.  
"Jay," he said, which again, wasn't entirely a lie.  
"She'd be a fool not to want you, love."  
There was a long, calm silence, during which John's throat occasionally closed up with the threat of tears. When she was drunk and glassy eyed and messy, John missed his mum. This mum, the one she was when she cared for him and held him. The one that had made everything better, from scraped knees to broken hearts. When he was younger, and her good days were more common, she'd taken John and Harry out to the zoo and the shops and things. John didn't think he'd been out of the house with his mother more than a handful of times in years.  
"Mum?" he said eventually, his voice gone small. "Why do you drink so much?"  
"You know why, love," she replied evenly. She actually sounded a little regretful, which only made John's chest ache more.  
"Is it dad?"  
The only response he got was a shallow nod.  
"Why don't you leave him?"  
"I can't. I love him."  
John's throat closed up again and he pushed his face into his mother's shoulder, fighting off tears for a few long moments. It made his now mostly healed eye twinge a little, and that only reminded him bitterly of why he was so consistently mad at his mother's passivity.  
"That's such a cop out," he managed to tell her eventually.  
"I know," she replied. Another long moment passed. Then she added, "I'm sorry I didn't do more for you and Harry, John." This time it was a whole lot more difficult to hold back the tears. One or two slipped past his eyelids and dropped onto his mother's shirt. She didn't comment, just held him like a child and rubbed slow circles on his back. They both sat silently and wished there was a way to turn back time to when things were easy. 

Monday morning brought a loud argument between his parents that woke John up early and had him pulling his pillow over his head, trying to block it out. That fight ended with his father storming out and slamming the door behind him so hard John was sure the house shook. He sighed to himself, dressed and went downstairs, finding that his mother had done the grocery shopping the day before. Hallelujah. He made toast and tea for his mother, taking them into her in her room. She had a dressing gown wrapped tightly around herself, but it didn't hide the new bruises on her wrist. John did his best not to look at them. He had his own breakfast and managed to cobble together a lunch - grocery shopping was one thing, but it was only ever done with any money left over after the alcohol was bought. At school it was the usual combination of complaints about mornings and Mondays, chatter about the weekend and discussion of the week ahead. He had his English workbook in his bag, several lists of J names written into the back of it. He was making an effort to focus on the prospect of showing them to Mr Moriarty that afternoon, but the image of those bruises on his mother's wrist were burnt into his mind. It came back to him far too frequently over the course of the day. When he finally did arrive in Moriarty's class room, there was genuine relief in his smile. He'd come to learn that no matter the problem, Mr M seemed to have a knack for making it better. The teacher's answering smile only proved this point.  
"John! Welcome. Please have a seat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, BY THE WAY. Big big big BIG things next chapter. The scene I've been waiting to write this entire time. *Flips tables*


	14. Murphy's Law

As soon as John sat down - his chair, once again, he noticed, had been placed on the end of Moriarty's desk so that he sat side on to him rather than opposite - he felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Thank heaven for you, Mr J Moriarty, he thought. The man in question had looked over his shoulder when John had come in, and was presently standing with his back to him, wiping down the whiteboard. John couldn't help the way his gaze dropped down to where the suit jacket had pulled up, giving him a rather fantastic view of the man's arse. I'm going to hell, he thought, completely unconcerned by the notion. In fact, the voice that spoke the thought in his head was almost gleeful at the prospect. After several moments of ogling Moriarty's arse he realised the other man had stopped moving. He slowly let his gaze wander up the neat seams of his fancy suit until it met with Mr M's. John's heart did a little double beat when he realised he'd been caught out, and colour splashed into his cheeks. But he simply gave the teacher an easy smile, eyelids dropping the slightest fraction as he looked up at him.  
"Seen enough, Mr Watson?" Moriarty asked archly, one eyebrow raised. There was the slightest amused smirk painted his features, which only served to bolster John's confidence.  
"Of you sir? Never," John returned quickly, a hot bolt of pride shooting through him at the clear surprise that appeared on Mr M's face. He might be being entirely inappropriate, but at least he was doing it well. Moriarty said nothing more as he turned and sat down in his chair. It was the first time John had ever seen him without a clever response. John got the feeling it wasn't something he was used to. Quite calmly, despite the smugness to the curve of his lips and the mischievous light in his eyes, John extracted his English work book from his school bag and flicked it open at the back. "I've come up with a way to work it out," he said, turning the book to face Moriarty and pushing it across the desk to him. He assumed the man would understand what he was talking about. "Rumpelstiltskin. I've written out a bunch of lists, you tell me which ones contain your name and which don't. And I'll work it out from there."  
Mr Moriarty licked his lips, very slowly, very deliberately. His eyes lingered on John for a long moment before they turned down to look at the page. John was glad when he did, because he was pretty certain that if Moriarty looked at him like that any longer, he was going to combust. Mr M skimmed down the first couple of lists and gave a nod. "A very good idea," he said eventually, lips curling up into his familiar confident smirk once more. He picked up a red pen from his desk, gesturing to the page with it. "May I?" he asked.  
"Go ahead," John replied. He watched as Moriarty moved through the lists, putting a tick or a cross next to each one once he'd determined if it contained his name or not. As he was working he reached his free right hand into the drawer of his desk and pulled out two small objects, fairly flat and about an inch square, wrapped in plastic. He slid one across the desk to John. Under closer inspection, John discovered it was chocolate.  
"They were giving these out in the staff room," Moriarty explained, pushing his thumb into the centre of his own piece until it fractured. "They're quite good." He pulled a sliver of chocolate out of the clear wrapping and placed it on his tongue. John echoed his actions, snapping the chocolate into smaller places and popping one into his mouth as he was handed back his book. As promised, it was very good. Especially so since he couldn't remember the last time he'd had real chocolate. He was about to voice his thanks when Mr Moriarty spoke again. "Now, before we start talking about the end of unit essay, have you got any questions about your film study?"

The good mood that clung to John every time he left Mr Moriarty's classroom slowly faded away as he walked home that evening. The image of his mother trying to hide her bruised wrist under the too-short sleeve of her dressing gown rose in his mind as he turned down the alley that lead behind his house. It brought with it an empty, useless feeling, which settled heavy into John's gut. He shook his head to try and clear it all away. When that didn't work, he decided he'd much rather return to that light, floaty feeling he had from being around Mr M. So he turned his mind back to earlier that evening, when the two of them were talking at the end of John's extra session. Moriarty had given John his usual line for any closing questions. Emboldened by the response to his Rumpelstiltskin idea, John had decided to bite the bullet and ask the question he'd been avoiding asking for a while now - at first because he'd thought Mr Moriarty would rebuff him and tell him he was being inappropriate, and later because he was more than a little worried that the answer would be yes. If the answer _was_ yes, then... well, on the one hand it would hurt, but on the other it would make Mr M's behaviour towards him up to this point all the more confusing. John had cleared his throat and leant forward, hands steepled on the desk in an unconscious reflection of the other man's behaviours, smiling sweetly.  
 _"I do have one question, Mr Moriarty," John began, that familiar quiet thrill at using the man's name running down his spine. What was he going to be like when he found out his first name? It could potentially be quite embarrassing. "Are you in a relationship?"_  
John's heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst out of his chest in the long pause that followed. He couldn't be sure if Moriarty was taking the time to consider his answer, or if the older man was intentionally torturing him. At this stage either seemed a likely possibility. Finally, though, Mr M's lips parted, his tongue dipping out across the lower before he answered with a simple, "No." John felt like he'd just been given a million dollars. And a puppy.  
John still had a smile on his face from that memory when he let himself in his front door. It disappeared the instant his eyes landed on the shards of broken glass that lay scattered across the hallway, fanning out from the door into the living room. There was broken sniffing coming from the source of the glass, and John immediately recognised it as belonging to his mother. He went completely still and listened hard, but he couldn't hear any sign of his father. He put his school bag on the stairs and made his way carefully around the shattered glass into the living room. His mother was on her hands and knees, gingerly collecting bits of broken glass into sheath of newspaper. Her hands were bloodied, and even with her face down-turned John could see the split lip and the trickle of dried blood from her nose, half smeared by the swipe of a hand. "Mum."  
His mother didn't look up, shaking her head slightly. "Go up to your room, John."  
"At least let me look at it," he said, taking a step toward her. She held up a hand to halt him. "I'll be fine. Go, before he gets back."  
A realisation hit John then, one he felt utterly stupid for not having come to before. He'd known his whole life that his father beat his mother, and as he'd grown older he'd figured it was more often than he hit either John or Harry. But it had never occurred to him until then that maybe she'd let him. For their sake's. To spare her children. That useless, hollow ache in his chest flared up to the point he almost couldn't breathe. When he regained the ability, John silently got down on his knees beside his mother and helped her collect the rest of the glass, ignoring her arguments. _I'm an idiot,_ he thought once she'd lapsed into silence. _I'm a total, stupid, heartless idiot. I spent all this time hating her for not helping us, and the whole time she was doing the only thing she could. She was standing between him and us._

Upstairs, his lights off except for the slightly flickery lamp on his desk, John was going through the lists of names in the back of his English book. It was late, after two in the morning, but he hadn't been able to sleep. His father had returned after midnight, roaring drunk almost immediately stepping into a screaming match with his mother before their bedroom door slammed and the house fell into silence. John had spent a long time thinking things over, from his mother, his father and his sister to his friends, his plans for escape, and inevitably Mr M. He'd run through so many emotions that now he just felt blank inside, raw. By the time his eyes started to itch and he yawned so wide he briefly thought he might dislocate his jaw, he had another set of lists written out, much shorter than the first. This wasn't going to take as long as he had anticipated. As he finally crawled into bed and wrapped himself in his blankets, John thought he might even be able to work out Moriarty's first name after his next session with the man - scheduled for the following afternoon. It was with this in mind that John at last fell asleep. And, consequently, it was on this topic that John dreamed. He'd planned to simply address Moriarty by his full name once he'd found it out. But in his dream there was an in-class test, and in the box for the teacher's name John had written out both Moriarty's first and last. When Mr Moriarty came to collect his paper, he read his own name and quirked an eyebrow at John, that smug smirk crawling across his lips. "I'll see you after class, Watson," he said, his voice not the usual tone he used in class, but the lower, slightly rougher one John fancied he used when it was just the two of them. A hot tingle ran down John's spine and he nodded, trying not to smile too smugly. His seat was set next to Moriarty's, rather than on the other side or at the end of his desk, both chairs angled towards each other. John slid into his calmly, but moments later Moriarty was catching the front of his shirt, pulling him to his feet and turning him around so the backs of his thighs pressed into the desk. John's breathing hitched up and he tipped his head back slightly to look into Moriarty's eyes. God _damn_ those eyes. Mr M was smirking, standing just a little too close to be entirely innocent, and as his tongue dragged out over his lower lip John could do nothing to stop the way his eyes followed its path. "You did a good job, John," he purred, and John's knees all but went to jelly. Thank god he had the desk to keep him upright. "You learnt my name very quickly. I think you deserve a reward," Moriarty went on. His eyes moved slowly down to John's lips, and John's heart was pounding so hard he was certain the other man could hear it. A smirk curled Mr M's lips and his hand fell out of John's shirt, moving instead to grip his hips. Before he knew it John was being lifted onto the desk as though he weighed nothing at all. Moriarty's hands slid down his legs to his knees, pushing them apart and stepping between them. Once he was so close John could feel the heat of the other man against his chest, one of those hands moved up his back and pushed into his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. There was a long moment where he didn't do anything more than that, and despite the fact he was still fully clothed, John felt utterly exposed. His breath was coming short and there was no way his trousers weren't tenting from how much blood had rushed into his groin. The gasp that fell from his lips when Moriarty's mouth finally grazed over his throat was far too loud, but in that moment he couldn't bring himself to care. It was little more than a brush of his lips at first, gradually morphing into a languid, open mouthed kiss with just the slightest teasing scrape of teeth. The hand that wasn't in John's hair slid slowly up the inside of his thigh to cup the bulge in his trousers, making John blush. He felt that familiar smirk curl against his skin and the heel of Mr M's palm began to rub slowly against his hard on. "Shit," John sighed out, his hands curling against the desk where they were supporting him. A throaty chuckle sounded against his skin and the hand between his legs twisted, making John moan and push into it. Skilled fingers flicked open the button on his trousers, then tugged down the zip. John's heart skipped a beat. Was he about to get laid? Over Moriarty's desk? Holy fucking shit. Lips began to slowly trace their way down John's neck, teeth dragging along his collarbone as fingertips traced along the waistband of his briefs. The hand remained in his hair, holding his head back, making the rest of him arch a little into Moriarty's touch. John's very blood buzzed with arousal, completely willing to take anything the man was going to give him. Fingers dipped in underneath his pants. John had no time to mourn the loss of the touch the heel of the attached hand was providing, because he was too busy revelling in the fact that the guy he had a gigantic crush on was about to touch his dick. 

Of course, he didn't. Because, as Murphy's law dictates, John's alarm had to go off at the exact last moment he wanted it to. And in this case, it was right when he was about to get a hand job from his fit English teacher. Albeit a dream hand job, from a dream copy of said teacher, but hell, it was something. Instead, he got to wake up disappointed, with an erection that almost ached. "Fucking hell," he groaned aloud. He glanced at his clock. After a moments consideration he decided he probably had time to jerk off in the shower before he had to leave for school. Gathering his clothes and holding them in front of himself, John hurried downstairs and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door behind himself just as the door to his parent's bedroom swung open. He was _not_ dealing with any of that right now. Once he got into school, Mike practically dragged him off to the side before he even got a chance to sit down. "All right?" he asked, his eyebrows high and amused. John frowned at him. "Fine. What's up with you?"  
"Nothing," Mike assured him, grabbing John's chin and lifting it.  
"The hell are you doing?"  
"I'm looking for hickeys," Mike explained calmly, dropping John's chin and smirking at him. "You walk in here looking like you got laid, and as your friend it is my responsibility to inform you if you haven't quite covered one."  
John shook his head, laughter replacing his confused scowl. "No. I did not get laid. Can I please sit down now?"  
Mike considered him for a long moment before waving him off. "Fine. But you know I'll find out if you're lying to me."  
"Sure you will," John replied with a roll of his eyes, going to join his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so something completely different was supposed to happen in this chapter I'M SORRY I CAN'T CONTROL MY STUPID CHARACTERS but it will happen next chapter I SWEAR.  
> I've been telling myself that for like four chapters now so I'm sure one day it will be true.  
> Love me.  
> Love, me.  
> Ah, commas.


	15. Seeing the Sun

After the last time, John should have expected his dream to keep coming back to him. But he hadn't been prepared for it, so of course it took him by surprise. The moment he stepped into Moriarty's classroom and the man's dark eyes lifted to meet his, all he could think of was a hand in his hair, holding his head back on that very desk, those lips brushing over his skin... John felt blood attempt to rush in two directions at once, and he hurriedly moved to his desk and sat down before it could reach either destination. He dropped his jumper into his lap to hide the effects of the first, and kept his head down to hide the second. This was really getting to be a problem. He could still feel Mr M's hands, sliding down his legs, moving his knees, wandering up to his crotch... Fuck, fuck, fuck. John bit his lip, hard, and called up some of the more unpleasant images he could think of as he pulled his things from his bag. He didn't look up until he was confident he'd regained his control. He regretted this decision the moment he did so. Moriarty's eyes were on his, and those eyes were enough to pin him like a butterfly, force his breath from his lungs, and immediately recall the heat of the other man so close to him. John tore his eyes away as soon as he could, but not before his lips parted a fraction and his eyes flooded with pupil. He was so done for. Moriarty's lesson went right over his head that morning, because he had to tune out the teacher's voice so he wouldn't keep hearing it murmur, _I think you deserve a reward._ John kept reminding himself he was in class, amongst people he'd known for years, and there was no way in hell he could let any of them know how aroused he was right now. So he ignored Moriarty and with a great deal of focus, managed to get through the lesson. He rushed out of class without so much as a glance in the teacher's direction, knowing that even a moment would be enough to shatter his careful composure. Fortunately in his next class, the way he had to concentrate to understand his statistics teacher's drone was enough to distract him, and by the time he sat down for first break he was composed again.   
"You feeling all right, John?" Peter asked him. John lifted his head from the book he'd been reading. "Fine," he replied, giving his friend a small smile. "Why?"  
"Dunno, you were acting weird first period," Peter replied with a shrug. John's skin got a bit warm but he managed to wave it off.   
"I'm fine."

"Hey, mum asked if you wanted to come round for dinner Friday," Charlie said as they left their final class of the day. They were drifting back towards Mr Moriarty's classroom, John forcefully not thinking about the other man.   
"Sure," he replied with an easy grin. "What time? I usually have an extra after school on a Friday is all." Don't think about it.   
"That doesn't matter, it's just gonna be pizza and movies. I can hang around and wait for you to be done." There was a pause, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a slow smirk growing over Charlie's features.   
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.   
"I may or may not be hooking up with someone in the library after school Friday."   
John beamed at her. "You filth," he teased, and she just grinned and turned, heading to her locker. "See you tomorrow!" she called. John was still shaking his head to himself when he almost ran into Mary. She planted a hand on his chest, looking up at him through her lashes and smiling sweetly. "Hey, John."  
"Hi," John replied, immediately wary of the way she was acting. He knew it well - it was the behaviour she adopted when she wanted to get her way.   
"We don't hang out much any more. We should have some time alone... sometime," she went on, tilting her head a little. John forced a smile. "Sure."  
"Fantastic," she said, taking a step further into his personal space. Hard wired instinct had John holding his ground, even if he didn't particularly want to be this close to her. "Are you free now?" she asked.   
"Actually I'm not, I've got after class help," he replied, watching her face fall.   
"Oh. I guess it will have to be another time, then," she said, pouting. John resisted the urge to cringe at that pout. Once it had all but had him on his knees. Now it only made his mouth taste bitter.   
"Yeah, another time," he agreed. Mary fluttered her eyelashes at him and smiled, standing on her toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "See you," she said, and left. John rubbed the bridge of his nose for a long moment before finally getting to Moriarty's classroom. He pushed open the door, feeling more tired than he really had any right to be - admittedly he hadn't gotten all that much sleep, but Mary always seemed to drain his energy just that much more. His eyes swept across the front of the room and he was fairly certain he had a minor heart attack when he saw the chair Mr M had pulled up for him. It was placed beside the teachers, turned slightly so that they were facing towards each other. He snapped his eyes up to find Moriarty's, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed to find them colder than usual. The smile the teacher gave him was small and thin. "Welcome, Mr Watson. Please sit down." The older man gestured to the seat beside him, and all thoughts of the dream were forgotten. For some reason, the few steps to John's seat felt like a walk to the hangman's noose. This was it, then - everything was about to come tumbling down on his head. He'd gone too far with his final question to Mr M yesterday, he'd pressed too hard asking for his name, he'd done something wrong, and Moriarty had had enough of the games. Fucking great. John sat down, pulling his chair up to the desk and pulling out his book. He didn't get a chance to open it before Mr M was asking him about today's classwork, so clearly the lists in the back of it were to be ignored. John felt a little bit like he was being punished. No wonder, considering all he'd been up to. He barely contained his sigh and opened his book. "I... I was a little distracted today, sir," John admitted, not looking at him.   
"Yes, I noticed," Moriarty replied, and for a long moment John was certain the other man was looking at him. Then he was sighing, shaking his head and going through what he'd explained in class that day, his tone flat. They were close enough that John could smell him, the freshly laundered scent of his suit, the cologne that somehow smelt expensive - how can something _smell_ expensive? - his aftershave, all of it. Much to his chagrin, John found it made his mouth water. Fucking hormones, he cursed silently as they went through everything John was working on for the class at the moment. The whole time, Moriarty barely looked at him, opting instead to look at the wall or John's book or his desk or his own hands. On the occasion their eyes did meet, Mr M's were cold and distant, as his voice also remained throughout the session. It made John's chest ache dully. He didn't like these sessions nearly as much any more. When Moriarty finally seemed satisfied with John's work, there was a long pause. Accepting that the lists weren't going to be addressed today, possibly not ever, John began to put away his things. A hand on his wrist, two fingers laying across his pulse point as if checking it, stopped him. John looked up, his eyes questioning. Moriarty still wasn't looking at him - the opposite wall was where his gaze was currently levelled - but a little of his usual tone leaked into his voice when he spoke.   
"The Morstan girl. Are you two serious?"  
John was taken aback by that. His eyebrows pulled together and he tilted his head a little, subconsciously trying to draw the older man's eyes towards his own. "Mary? What do you mean, serious?"  
"You know what I mean, John."  
There was something about the way Mr Moriarty said his name just then that made John's heart swell in his chest. He said it like it was something precious, like he had to be gentle with it when it was on his tongue. John swallowed hard, those long familiar butterflies clamouring to make their renewed presence known in his stomach.   
"N-no," John began. He paused to clear his throat when he heard how broken it had come out, then tried again. "No, we're not together. We went together a few years ago, for a while, but now we're just friends." John resisted the urge to ask why the teacher wanted to know. A moment later, those eyes finally turned to his own, and the usual intensity was there in full, like he was trying to read into John's soul and ascertain if he was telling him the truth. John was pinned by the stare, absolutely helpless under it. His breath caught in his throat.   
"I saw her kiss you in the hall." It was almost an accusation. John was overwhelmed by his need to correct the other man, assure him Mary wasn't even a factor, that John was his, utterly. John shook his head.   
"She's been acting like that a bit lately, my friend's think she's trying to get back with me. But I don't want to. At all. I wish she'd quit." Especially since her acting like that makes you give me the cold shoulder. Moriarty's eyes didn't stray from John's the whole time he spoke, and finally, the tense line of his mouth and shoulders eased. A beat or two later he took his hand away from John's wrist.   
"I'm sorry," he said, looking genuinely apologetic. It wasn't something John had ever expected to see in him. Moriarty indicated John's book. "Done any more work on those lists?"  
John let out a breath, surprise and relief soaking into his bones. He flipped open to the new lists and pushed the book across the table to his teacher. Mr M gave him a genuine smile. It was like seeing the sun again. 

Moriarty had bought John dinner again - pizza, this time. After a brief resistance, he'd ascertained John's preferences and they'd both sat with their feet up on the teacher's desk while they ate it, talking just as easy as they ever had. John joked around, and when he made Mr Moriarty laugh, he felt like he'd won the lottery. There were few times in his life when he'd been this completely happy. In that moment, John thought that honestly, he didn't mind that he'd never get to touch Mr M the way he wanted to. The man had already given him this, and this was enough. Even so, he'd wanted more than he ever had before to kiss the man goodbye as he was heading to leave. He resisted, of course - he didn't want to ruin such a fantastic evening by doing something like that. Moriarty drove him home, despite John's insistence that he could walk, and just the slight brush of their hands when Mr M handed him his bag from the back seat - some sort of fancy upholstery John had never seen inside a car, naturally - was enough to send pleasant tingles across skin. "Thank you, sir," John began, wondering how to explain that he was grateful for everything the other man had done for him, from the first day they'd met. As usual, the older just waved it off, giving John another smile.   
"It's my pleasure. Go on, off you go. Get some sleep, John."   
John fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and there was no teasing, chuckling man in his dreams that night. Only gentle hands and that laugh that was like sunshine. 

John woke early the next morning, sitting down at his desk with the nicest piece of card he could find amongst his smattering of leftover art supplies from the year he'd taken the subject at school, and a battered calligraphy pen. He sorted through his lists until he came up with the name he'd been searching for. A smile curled John's lips and he whispered into the chill morning air, "James Moriarty." He brushed one fingertip along the name in his book, recalling the smile the man had directed up at him as he'd dropped him home last night, that ringing laughter, the smell of him... John bit his lip, straightening up and looking at the wall in front of him. Shit, he thought to himself, blinking rapidly as though it would change things. John let out a soft sigh and shook his head at himself. Maybe Charlie had been right, after all. "John Watson, you stupid bastard," he murmured aloud, smiling a little as he covered his eyes with his hand. "You've fallen in love with him, haven't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I lied.   
> Once again, the thing that was supposed to happen several chapters past has still not happened, but this time it really, really, really is going to happen next chapter. Things are happening all out of order and I blame stupid John and stupid Jim for being stupid and mucking it all up for me. Please by appeased by that something else big happening instead that wasn't supposed to happen for another several chapters.   
> Dammit.


	16. Unstoppable Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART TWO: John Watson. Seventeen years old and kind of, sort of, just a little bit, totally in love with his mysterious, infuriating, gorgeous English teacher.  
> AND  
> James Moriarty.  
> He wouldn't be mysterious if he told you anything, now would he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the moment we've all been waiting for.  
> Me especially.

John had to wait all day before he even saw Mr Moriarty again. When the man finally walked into last period English class - only a minute and a half from being late - John's heart gave the most peculiar little squeeze, and he knew his suspicions of that morning were correct. Well, you're fucked now, he thought to himself. Mr M's - that is, _James's_ \- eyes went straight to John's desk, the slightest smile playing over his lips for an instant before he moved up to the board.  
"Good afternoon everyone. I trust you're all going well on your film studies, they are due Friday. You can have this lesson to work on them, any questions simply raise your hand and I will answer them promptly."  
He's an unstoppable force, John thought, opening up his film study. He'd worked through most of it with Moriarty after school already, so he didn't have any questions he needed to ask. He was, however, itching to get to the end of the lesson so all the other students could bugger off and he could have the man to himself. Oh boy, I really have got it bad, haven't I? The class worked mostly silently, the occasional raised hand drawing Moriarty - James - from his desk. John had been right; knowing the man's first name was like some kind of wonderful drug. Charlie kept nudging John for help because, a surprise to absolutely no one, she'd done almost no work on her own study and was getting a little panicky at the impending due date. He calmly walked her through it, the way Mr M had done him, and once his eyes flickered up to see the teacher watching him. He wore a tiny smile, and there was a softness to his expression that John hadn't seen in it before. He couldn't help but smile back, and after an instant James's eyes met with his properly and the smile broadened. It was only for a moment, before he seemed to snap himself back to reality and looked around the class, expression all business once more.  
"Oi," Charlie grumbled, and John realised he'd stopped listening.  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Would you stop dreaming about your secret boy toy for two minutes and help me?" she teased. John rolled his eyes at her, confident she had no idea just how accurate she was in her jest.  
"Oh but he's so dreamy," he sighed back, and Charlie elbowed him, laughing. Mr Moriarty cleared his throat and she immediately bit her lip, cutting short her laughter.  
"We've angered the big bad wolf," she whispered to John. "Better go find a woodcutter."

John didn't even wait until the door had swung shut behind the last student to leave before he was walking to Moriarty's desk. The teacher hadn't so much as drawn up a chair for him yet, but that was fine. That was all fine. Instead of pulling one up and sitting down opposite Moriarty, John walked around to his side of the desk, leaning against it like he belonged, and fished the carefully calligraphied card he'd prepared that morning out of his bag. He dropped the backpack to the floor before placing the name plate squarely in front of the other man, watching him with a somewhat smug grin. James's lips curled up into an easy smile, one fingertip tracing the curls John had painstakingly etched. "Well done," he said, and John's chest swelled at the praise. Eventually, he raised his eyes to John's, and there was a spark in them John hadn't seen there before. "It only took you how long? Two months? Three?" His tone was light and teasing. John opened his mouth to argue - in all fairness, he'd only been _trying_ to work out Moriarty's name for a few days - but snapped it closed as his dream from the night before last came back to him. He leaned back against Moriarty's desk, planting his hands on the surface and looking down at his seated teacher. Shit, if it only went half as well as his dream had...  
"Don't you think I deserve a reward, sir?" John asked, his mouth dry with nervousness that he quickly fought back. He was worried this might be a step too far. But he'd been dancing around Moriarty long e-bloody-nough now, he was determined to make an actual move before he went insane from the will-he-or-won't-he. He let the tip of his tongue dip out between his lips, internally rejoicing as James's eyes followed its path across his lower lip. The teacher carefully placed the card into his planner before replying. "Yes, I believe you do," he agreed. James stood slowly, side stepping until he was standing directly in front of John, his hands loose at his sides. He was just a tad too close, and John surreptitiously jabbed a fingernail into a neighbouring digit just to check he wasn't dreaming again. Nope, this was really happening. Holy fuck. "I'm an observant man, John," James began, and the stunning similarities of this to John's dream had the younger man going a little weak at the knees. He was glad for the support of the desk. His heart was pounding, and for a dizzy moment he thought he might pass out. "And I'm hardly ever wrong. So I believe that the best reward I could give you is..." Mr M waited a long moment, watching with delight as curiosity blossomed in John's face the longer the pause went on. Then, finally, finally, James leant in and pressed his lips against John's in a chaste, lingering kiss. Even though he'd been hoping for it, praying for it, John wasn't prepared for it to actually happen. So he only barely managed to respond, for no more than an instant, before James was pulling away, returning to his seat and rolling it back in to his desk. "Now, how are you going with that conclusion?" he asked, as casually as if nothing had happened. John stared at him for far too long, his lips slightly parted and still tingling with the sensation of James's pressed against them.  
"I-I..."  
"Do take a seat, John. You can't just stand there all evening."  
John bit back any more stammering idiocy and managed to push himself upright from James's desk. He got a chair and pulled it up opposite the teacher's desk, trying to focus on anything but the fact he'd just been kissed by the man opposite him and failing miserably. 

It was lunch the next day before he got the opportunity, but as soon as it presented itself Mike had cornered John, arms crossed over his chest and expression determined. "Okay, now this time you _definitely_ look like you got laid."  
John laughed, and it was so free and easy Mike's arms dropped to his sides. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard John really laugh like that. John shook his head slightly, voice hushed as he replied. "Wrong again. I did get kissed though," he admitted. Mike raised an eyebrow at him.  
"Okay, you never talk about this kind of thing so quietly. What's the big secret?"  
"Can't tell you, mate," John replied, and he really did feel a little bit bad about it. "It was nothing, really. But I pulled myself stupid over it," he admitted with a big, goofy grin he couldn't seem to keep from his face. Mike chuckled and clapped a hand over his shoulder. "Well, good for you. It's about time you found someone who makes you happy. You clearly fancy the socks off them, whoever it is. Good luck mate."  
John, well schooled in hiding pain from his face, went on grinning until Mike turned away. Once he was no longer looking, John bit down hard on his tongue to keep in the yelp of pain that threatened to escape him. When he'd gotten home the night before, John's head had been so totally in the clouds over the kiss that he hadn't noticed the stink of cigar smoke until he was too far into the house to leave. He'd tried to dart up the stairs to the safety of his room, but his father and caught him first, tearing his shirt with how hard he yanked to bring him down the stairs. John had fallen down the few he'd managed to climb, and in no mood to be treated like a punching bag, he'd swung out at his father in retaliation. Never a good idea. They'd fought, shouting at each other and shoving, punching, a cigar clamped between his father's teeth all the while. It didn't take long for John's father to get the upper hand and grab both of John's wrists in one of his hands, pinning him face first against the wall with that grip and a knee to his lower spine. He'd yanked the cigar out of his mouth with his free hand, and pressed it into the skin he'd revealed on John's shoulder when he'd torn his shirt, over and over until his son had screamed. When he'd finally been released John had punched his father so hard in the face the man had actually stumbled, giving him enough time to get upstairs and lock the door behind him. He'd barricaded himself into his bedroom, folding the incident up small and locking it away from himself, utterly refusing to let it ruin his mood. He'd taken a couple painkillers and lost himself in the memory of Moriarty standing so close to him, looking at him so intensely, then actually, genuinely kissing him, while he wasn't dreaming, until his good mood had returned. 

Drama second period was, blessedly, a theory lesson, so John didn't have to do anything that would drag his shirt across his injured shoulder. He was ginger with it all day, his heart sinking a little when he spotted the sign on the notice board informing them all that rugby try-outs would be starting in the next week. He hoped his shoulder would be passably healed by then, but he couldn't be sure. He had English just before lunch, and every time his eyes met with Moriarty's - which was often - his heart stuttered in his chest. Man's going to give me a bloody coronary if he keeps looking at me like that, he thought. At the end of the lesson James called out to him, not looking up from his planner. "Watson, a moment."  
Oh god please be going to kiss me again I could really do with that today please, John babbled internally, packing his bag and slinging it over his good shoulder before walking over. His heart thrummed as he waited - Moriarty wasn't looking up, was clearly waiting until the room was clear. He's going to kiss me again, John thought with certainty. He must be. They hadn't organised another session at the end of their last one, so he hoped they'd cover that now, too. But when the class was finally emptied neither of the things John was hoping for came from James's mouth.  
"There's blood on your shirt."  
Fuck. John took a breath, assuring himself Jim was just addressing this first. He shrugged with his good shoulder, as if it were no big deal. "It's nothing. Dunno if it's even mine."  
James's eyes were so sharp when they snapped up to meet his that John could almost feel them piercing through his lie.  
"Show me," Moriarty demanded. John swallowed hard, hesitating. "John."  
With a reluctant sigh, John put down his school bag and carefully, carefully, peeled his shirt off, revealing the messy scabs he hadn't even bothered to clean properly the night before. James's eyes lingered on it for a full minute, completely silent as that fire John had seen glimpses of before built up in his eyes. Then the man let out a shout that was almost inhuman, throwing a tin of pencils off his desk and into the wall opposite. John had seen Moriarty a little mad before, in class, when a student was especially bothersome or dense, or disobeyed him. The other times he'd seen the injuries John's father had inflicted upon him. Honestly, the spark the man caught when he was angry those times had turned John on. But this was nothing like that. This was pure rage. And it was terrifying. John knew all too well what could happen when a powerful man slipped into the hold of that kind of rage, and he hurriedly pulled his shirt back on, backing away from James's desk.  
"He has no right!" Moriarty was shouting. "Who does he think he is to treat you like that! He ought to be taught a god damn lesson! I've half a mind to go there myself, right now, show him what kind of a thing happens to people who dare to hurt-" he broke off, having wheeled around to face John and seen him practically cowering against one of the student desks, his eyes wide and his bag clutched protectively in front of him as his eyes darted from the door to the windows, obviously debating the best possible exit route. Moriarty deflated immediately, his eyes gone sad at the sight of the younger. "John," he breathed out, sagging into his chair. "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear, I'd never hurt you." It's the first time he's heard James curse, and the man's hands are up in front of him, palms out, trying to prove his words. But John's animal brain had kicked in, years of fearing his father's wrath jumping to the forefront when faced with a threat that was all too similar. His heart was beating too fast and he just wanted _out_.  
"John."  
It was the same soft, gentle voice that had spoken to John in his sleep, wrapped him up and kept him safe in more dreams than he cared to count. It drew him back to his rational self a little, and John eyed Moriarty warily. He wasn't sure if he could trust someone who could so suddenly flip from one extreme to the other. But in the same token, he couldn't help himself. He did trust James, and that was all there was to it.  
"Please. At least let me clean it up."  
This was Moriarty, his Mr M, the man he was pretty certain that, even though he'd just scared the absolute living shit out of him, he was in love with. John swallowed hard and lowered his bag down to his side, walking slowly over to Moriarty and dropping his bag beside his desk. James stood, indicating his chair. "Sit down," he said gently, getting the supplies he needed out of his desk drawer. John only hesitated a moment more before he pulled his shirt off once more and settled into Moriarty's chair. James knelt down at John's feet, even his chosen position one of supplication as he poured out apology after apology, an endless stream of promises that he'd never hurt John, never wanted to let anyone else hurt him, either. John was still a little jittery from the flood of adrenaline, but even so the stark contrast between the utter gentleness of James's hands, a tenderness he knew so well, and the complete, unbridled rage of moments before, had him speechless. How was it possible for both of these extremes to exist within one man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I cannot do fluff without also doing angst. I'm sorry, my lovely little muffins.  
> Update: dear lord, the grammar errors! This is why adequate sleep should be compulsory before editing.


	17. Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing that happens in this chapter was supposed to happen.   
> Also, I had to change the rating of the fic because of this chapter so, y'know, be prepared for that.

John knew that James was being cautious around him now. He knew this because after having those extra sessions every day but weekends since they'd decided to start them, Moriarty hadn't proposed another since his outburst about John's father. The one that had had John ready to run from the building full speed. He'd pressed a tube of antiseptic into John's hand when he'd finished cleaning his shoulder on Thursday, but had barely spoken to him since, even in class. The glances the teacher spared him during school were brief, laced with concern and apology. Even Charlie had noticed - which was odd, because she'd never noticed any of Mr M's looks towards John previously. Which only reiterated to John just how over-zealous James was being. John didn't really think it was necessary - he knew that if James had sat him down after class and gone on as they usually did, silently demanding that he be forgiven his transgression, John would forgive him. Without question or hesitation. But the teacher had not done that, and so John was forced to dwell on his confused reaction to what had passed. Once he'd gone home that evening and thought it over, John had decided that his reaction had been ridiculous. But as the time stretched on that James intentionally avoided being alone with him, John started to question that. Had he been right to be afraid of the man with the fire in his eyes after all? And of the two sides of Moriarty that he knew - the quiet, sarcastic man he'd fallen in love with after school hours, and the explosion, the creature that seemed to be pure rage and flames - which was the man and which was the mask? By Wednesday the next week John had moved past uncertainty and into irritation. He was fed up with Moriarty avoiding him, and the wide range of emotions he felt on the matter had all condensed down into anger. Anger was easy. Anger was comfortable and familiar. He knew how to be angry. So as he threw himself into rugby trials that afternoon, John ignored the bite of pain in his shoulder, still not properly healed after his father's efforts, and imagined every tackle he made was on James. That when he sent a fellow student to the dirt with a hard thud and a pained grunt, it was Moriarty he was punishing. Thus, he was more than a little surprised to look up when tryouts had been called to an end to find the man himself stood at the edge of the feild, watching him with his old intense gaze. For a moment there was a tug in his chest, an overwhelming desire to go to him. And then the anger took over, slamming down over his mind like a shutter. The tiny smile that had begun to pull up the corners of his lips disappeared and he turned his back to James, squaring his shoulders determinedly as he picked up his bag from the sidelines. One of the selectors clapped him on the back and told him he was back in this year - that he really hadn't needed to try out at all, since he'd done so well on the team for the last several. John waved him off with a forced smile and followed the other dirty, sweaty guys that had attended into the locker room. Moriarty was still around when he emerged again, on the fringes of the parking lot John would have usually crossed to walk home. Instead of going through it and passing close to the man, John skirted around it and ignored his presence entirely. The sky had turned grey while John had been showering, and as he turned onto the path that would lead him home, a light drizzle began to fall onto his shoulders and damp hair. A car pulled up beside him and John stiffened, turning to look. He relaxed immediately when he recognised it as Tim Maury, last year's captain of the rugby team and one of this year's selectors, now that he was out of school and at university on a sports scholarship.   
"Need a lift?" Maury offered, leaning across towards the wound down window. "Only 'cos it's raining, mind." John chuckled - him and Maury had been good mates the previous year, though they hadn't bothered to stay in contact once he'd left the school.   
"Sure. But only because it's raining," he echoed, tugging open the door and hauling himself into the high cab of the other boy's ute. "What are you doing with yourself, Maury? This isn't an academic's truck," he commented as he tugged his seatbelt across. Maury gave him a familiar, easy grin as he put the truck back into gear and started down the street towards John's place.   
" 'M workin' as a labourer on my off days," he explained. "What about you? Still knockin' em dead? Hear they still call you Three Continents."   
John snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, they do, but I dunno why. I mean, I thought I was an' all, but I guess not." I don't even know what's going on with the one guy I thought I might be getting somewhere with any more, he added silently.   
"So there's no lovely lady or dashing bloke on the horizon, then?" Maury replied, his grip on the steering wheel suddenly the slightest bit too tight.   
"Not at the moment," John replied, barely managing to keep bitterness out of his tone. "What happened to that girl you were sweet on? Cassie, was it?"  
Maury shrugged. "We went together for a month or so once school finished. Then she moved on to bigger and better things."   
"That's too bad."  
Maury just shrugged again. They drove in silence the last few minutes to John's house. He turned towards Maury to thank him for lift, and was silenced by the way the older boy's deep blue eyes were levelled on him. John's brain immediately redirected.   
"Can I come in?" Maury asked before John could think of a thing to say. There was slight smirk on his lips, a confident spark in his look that spoke volumes. John's stomach did a little flip.  
"I'd say yes, but I'd better check that my olds are in an agreeable mood first. Give me a sec," he replied, returning Maury's smile before slinging his bag over his good shoulder and slipping out of the truck. He opened his front door and got two steps inside before his father was yelling. He backed up immediately, hurrying back to Maury's ute and tugging the door shut behind himself.   
"How about we go to yours instead?"

What had slipped John's notice as Tim drove them both back down the street and towards his own home, was the dark silver car parked on the corner a short distance back. And the man in the fancy suit with the dark, slicked-back hair sitting behind the wheel. His expression was neutral, but in his eyes was fire. Moments after Maury's truck had disappeared around a corner, a man approaching middle age with thinning hair burst through the door of John's house. The hair was the exact same colour as the youngest Watson, and he was immediately identifiable as John's father. The driver of the silver car - one James Moriarty - watched as Watson Senior got into his own car. He followed the other man, just far enough behind not to be noticed, through the streets and into a shady parking lot between several high brick buildings. Mr Watson pushed himself out of his car and locked it, heading into the door of the bar the carpark serviced. Once he was out of sight, Moriarty slid out of his own car and went to the other man's. Late model, in bad shape. The hood was dented in three places, and it took Moriarty several attempts to prise it open. Then he got to work. 

John had always been just a little jealous of Maury - he'd gotten some sort of benefit when he was fifteen, moved out of his father's house and into a little flat about half way between the school and the city proper, where the university was. He had the freedom John craved with every bone in his body. It was the bruises the two of them had bonded over. Maury had been changing next to him after practice and John had recognised the patterns of knuckles on his ribs. A set that matched John's own, at the time. Maury had caught John looking at them, and had been about to defend himself, tell some lie about getting into a fight, when he spotted John's. And from then on they'd had an understanding. A sort of kinship that neither of them had with anyone else. Maury had tried to get John to apply for the same benefit he received, since he was given it because he was abused at home. But John never could. There was always Harry to worry about, and his mum. John had spent countless evenings sleeping on Maury's threadbare couch, and later, in his bed, when he just didn't have the strength to go home. Now when he walked into Maury's little flat there was a familiarity to it, a sense of home. He accepted a beer and the two of them sat on the sofa and caught up on the time that had passed since they'd spoken. Maury told John about Cassie, the girl he'd loved silently through most of high school and then lost almost as soon as he'd finally caught her. She'd left him for another member of the varsity footy team, a few years older and without the skeletons Maury hoarded in his closet. He talked about his labouring job, how good it felt to be able to work until he was too tired to even think, let alone feel the pain his chest. He told John how he'd tried to get back in contact with his mum - who'd left him with his father when he was a few years old - and she'd all but said she never wanted him. As he spoke, that mask of the easy smile and laughing eyes fell away from his face. John told him about Harry leaving him to the mercy of their father, about his realisation that his mother was putting herself between him and them. He talked about Lisa and Mary and James, though he didn't say who he was. About how he'd thought he might actually be getting some bright spark to hold onto, to help him through it all. And he told Maury how James had suddenly stopped talking to him. As John spoke, he realised just how crushed he was by the thought he'd lost him. When Maury's eyes went dark, John knew it wasn't the beer. And when John tipped his chin up, his eyes fixed on Tim's, they both knew it was that ache in their chests, that force that had always drawn them together. But it didn't matter. Anything to dull it. Anything that would let them run from it, hide from it. Even if just for a moment. Maury cupped his hands around either side of John's face and crushed their lips together. The kiss was hard, unforgiving and marked by teeth and hot breath. John's hands fisted into Maury's shirt and tugged him in closer. It was not desire or even attraction that had them clawing at each other, John pushing his old friend backward so he could pull his shirt off. It was the need for an anchor, the closeness of someone who meant safety. It was desperation. 

Maury had shoved at John until he stood up, then they'd both pushed and tugged until they were in Maury's bedroom. Maury unbuttoned John's shirt, pulling it off his shoulders to reveal the littering of perfectly circular burns. His eyes ran over them slowly before they rose to meet John's.   
"Your old man?" he asked. John just nodded. Tim leant down, and the kiss he pressed to the unmarred skin just beside the burns was almost too tender when coupled with everything up until that point. A shiver ran up John's spine.   
"What do you think is better," Maury asked softly, his lips brushing John's shoulder. "To feel like this, or to feel nothing at all?" Of course, he didn't mean the physical injury. He meant that dark ache it caused inside your chest, that constant whispering voice asking you, 'Did I deserve this? What if I did? And what if I'm never good enough to deserve better?' John shook his head. "I have no idea," he replied, his voice so close to a sob that Maury's heart broke a little. He secured a hand under Maury's jaw and tugged his head around until their eyes met. "Come on, Tim. Let yourself feel something else for a little while. Let me."   
Maury didn't hesitate before he was capturing John's lips again, pushing him backwards to lay on the bed. John's hands immediately moved between them to tug until he undid the button on Maury's trousers, then the zip and he was kicking them off, rolling them over so Maury could do the same for him. Once they were both down to their pants, John covered Maury's throat with his mouth, always careful not to leave a mark. Their hips rolled together easily, and one of John's hands strayed down to trace the ladders of scars that decorated Maury's upper thighs. Always high enough that rugby shorts would cover them. Always careful. John's chest squeezed tight at how many more there were since the last time they'd seen each other. Maury's hand came down to still his wandering fingertips, the silent communication enough to tell John what he meant. John took Maury's hand and laced their fingers together as he began to rut his hips in earnest, drawing a moan from the older boy's lips that John was quick to echo with his own. Maury rolled them over again, using his free hand to shove John's pants and his own boxers out of the way so he could grasp both of them together. John gasped at the sudden hot press of Maury's cock against his own, eyelids half closing as the first slide of his hand sent that heat all through his body. The hand that was still holding his tightened, and John arched up so that he could kiss him again. His fingers buried deep into the hair on the back of Tim's head and they groaned into each other's mouths as John rocked up into Maury's fist. They fell into a rhythm, quick and careless, thrusting against each other and kissing with tongue and teeth until first Maury, and then shortly after John, came between them, spilling onto John's belly. Maury groaned and rolled sideways, flopping heavily onto the bed beside John. He reached out for the tissues he kept beside his bed, cleaning off John's skin with a heavy hand before tossing them aside and curling against John. John turned towards him, sliding an arm across Maury's waist and closing his eyes as they slowly came down. Maury smiled at him, expression soft as he settled one of his own arms around John's back. They lay there in comfortable silence for a long time.   
"I reckon they'll make you captain of the team," Maury murmured eventually.   
"You think?"  
"Mmm. When you gonna move out of his house?" Maury's fingers were ghosting over John's injured shoulder.   
"When I finish school," John replied, eyes still closed.   
"Stubborn git. You want to know something else?"   
"You're gonna tell me no matter what I say," John pointed out with a smile against Maury's collarbone, and the older boy chuckled.   
"Yeah, I am. 'S polite though, innit?"   
John tipped his head back and met Maury's gaze. "All right then, let's have it."  
"You deserve better than this bloke who's making you feel the same way your dad does."  
John's smile turned sad. Maury stroked a hand through his hair gently. "It's not the same," John protested. "And... I love him."  
"And I love Cassie," Maury returned evenly. "Doesn't mean I deserve -" he was running John's fingertips over the scars on his leg, "- this."  
John pressed his palm over Maury's thigh and leant up to kiss him again. "You're a wiser man than I, Timothy Maury."  
"And you're a braver man than I, John Watson," Maury returned with a small smile. "Let's do this again."  
"Okay."

When Maury dropped John home later, the goodbye kiss he gave him was sweet and gentle and John had to lean up on his toes to return it. "Sure you wanna be here tonight?"   
"I've survived this long without you around, Maury. I'm sure I can handle another night. Besides, I've got school," John replied. Maury's hand was still on his cheek, a soft, comfortable weight reminding him that someone wanted him. It was nice.   
"Okay," Maury replied, looking like he'd much rather take John back home with him. "Be careful, okay?" John laughed, putting his arms around Maury's neck and pulling him down for another kiss. "I'll be fine. Bugger off."   
Maury chuckled and left obediently, making sure John was inside before he drove away. Once again, the silver car parked on the corner went unnoticed by them both. Sitting inside it, in the dark, Moriarty's face was just as blank as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maury invented himself while I was trying to further the Jim/John plot, blame him for this. As if they needed any more hindrances.


	18. Nothing

"Shit," John whispered into the pre-dawn darkness of his bedroom. He'd just awoken, pulse pounding, from a dream of Moriarty. Except it wasn't Moriarty, it was a huge black wolf, with fire where its eyes should have been and fangs dripping blood. The wolf had chased him down, caught him and pinned him to the ground with huge paws. He'd expected to be eaten alive. Instead, the wolf, who he knew in the way that dreamers do to be James, had simply nuzzled into his neck as tenderly as a puppy, then curled up at his side. John had found himself with a knife in his hand, presented with the option of kill the beast or accept that it was no beast at all. John scrubbed a hand across his face, palm catching on the light prickle of stubble that had decorated his chin. Other guys his age were for some reason obsessively proud of their ability to grow it, but John preferred to be without it. With a groan he rolled himself out of bed, standing and stretching out cramped muscles. He padded through the silent house to the bathroom, shaving and showering. While the hot water ran over his skin, the memory of being with Maury the night before rose in John's mind. He smiled, and before long his hand strayed down to his crotch. When James's face replaced Maury's, John dropped his hand and guilt surged through him. It was quickly replaced with anger. What had he to feel guilty about? Moriarty had kissed him once, and then pretended as though it had never happened. _He_ was the one avoiding John, not vice versa. John was perfectly entitled to be messing around with Tim. He squared his shoulders and glared at the tiles as he finished his shower. He'd do as he liked, and he would not feel guilty for some betrayal he was not committing. 

Charlie was looking at him funny as they sat in second period statistics, and about twenty minutes into the lesson John gave up and put down his pen, meeting her eyes.   
"What?"  
"Something's changed with you."  
"I'm sorry?" John returned, eyebrows pulling together. Charlie tipped her head to the side, giving him a contemplative look.   
"What did you do yesterday after school?" she demanded. John could feel the colour creeping into his cheeks and he fought it back.   
"Rugby try outs."  
Charlie's smile turned knowing and she leant one elbow on her desk, cupping her chin in her hand. "And then?"  
"Shut up, Charlie," John replied, turning his face down towards his work. Charlie grinned.   
"Ooh. Go on, spill. Who did - oh my god. It was Maury, wasn't it? I knew you were still carrying a torch for him. Is he your mystery guy?"  
John shot her an irritated look that very clearly said to lower her voice. She obliged.   
"Guessing Cass split, then."  
"You sound about as surprised as I was," John replied. Sometimes, he both loved and hated the fact Charlie knew him so well. "For another guy in his team, even. He's real messed up over it. And I was never carrying a torch for him. We messed around a bit, that's not the same thing." Charlie raised an eyebrow at him and he flapped a hand at her. "Shut up. We're entitled to cope however we like."  
"John. You've been miserable for days. I haven't heard a thing about Mr Mystery in ages, and then you go off with Maury who's just as messed over Cassie as you are your bloke. Are you sure you want to be doing this?"   
"Charlie," John returned, intentionally mirroring her speech. "I've been fine. Me and Maury aren't anything, really. We're just messing about. All right? He's an old mate and he's sweet. It's not something I really have to get into some massive internal debate about."  
Charlie eyed him. "Your guy did something, didn't he? It messed you up."  
"Shut up. Seriously."   
Charlie covered his hand with her own and gave it a squeeze. "I'm here if you want to talk about it."  
"I know."

The first thing John noticed in English that day was that James was sporting a burn on his hand. John had to consciously stop himself from going to him and taking care of it. The next thing he noticed was how the teacher was being unusually curt, all his answers to students much sharper than they ever had been before. Near the end of the lesson he said something so harsh that the girl he was speaking to actually flinched. Moriarty sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand and going to his desk, sitting on the edge of it. Once he'd taken a deep breath and lowered his hand, his expression was a lot gentler.  
"I apologise for behaviour today, class. I swear I'm not trying to be such a prick." John's eyebrow shot towards his hairline so quickly he may have strained it. James was actually speaking like a human being. Like he did when it was just he and John after school. John's heart ached for a moment before he remembered he was angry and shut it out. Moriarty was still speaking. "I'm going through a bit of a tough time at the moment. I'll try not to take it out on you in the future. You can go early, before I start biting heads off again." He waved a hand at them, giving a weary sigh. There were circles of shadow under his eyes that John hadn't seen before. If he weren't so busy being angry, he'd be concerned. He and Charlie packed up, and as John passed James' desk he couldn't help but look at him. The teacher refused to meet his eyes. Fuck him then, John thought bitterly, holding his head a little higher as he walked out. John spent the rest of his day doing his utmost not to think about James at all. 

John and Charlie were sitting out on the front steps of the school while they waited for Charlie's mum to come and pick her up. John was so completely done with the day, but he was reluctant to go home. He hadn't seen either of his parents before he left that morning, and he knew that when he eventually did, it was almost inevitably going to be unpleasant. John had his head tipped back, face towards the sun and his eyes closed when Charlie nudged him. He opened one eye to look at her and she just nodded forwards. With a soft huff, John sat up and followed her gaze - to where Maury was approaching them. He grinned his usual easy grin when his eyes met John's, pausing to pluck a flower from the beds in front of the school. He bowed low in front of John and presented it to him.   
"You filthy romantic," John accused with a chuckle, accepting the long petalled orange flower.   
"Says Three Continents Watson," Maury teased him, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. John rolled his eyes and patted the step beside him. "Sit. What are you doing here?" Charlie was smirking at them.   
''Shut up, you," John said, prodding her with his elbow.   
"Miss Bradbury," Maury said, sweeping up her hand gallantly to kiss her knuckles.   
"Oh sit _down_ you damn flirt," John laughed, and Tim finally did.   
"It's good to see you, Maury. It's been ages," Charlie was saying. John left them to chat, twirling his flower idly in his fingers and thinking. He'd told Charlie he and Maury were nothing, and they were. But maybe they ought to be something. It might be good for both of them, help them actually get over Cassie and James respectively. They certainly needed to. When Charlie's mum pulled up John waved at her, and was just able to hear her words to her daughter as she waved back.   
"Who's that with John, love?"  
"Tim Maury. He was the year above us."  
"Is he John's boyfriend?"  
Charlie pulled her door shut, but not before John caught her response. "Looks like it might end up that way."  
No pressure, John thought to himself, but then Maury's arm was sliding around his waist and pulling him against the taller boy's side. "You wanna hang out?"  
"Yeah," John replied immediately. After a few moments Maury stood up, holding out his hand to John. "Come on."  
"Where?" John asked warily, accepting the hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Maury just smiled, shifting his grip and leading John around the corner towards the field. John figured almost immediately that they were headed for the bleachers in the far corner, and his lips curled into a smile.   
"Getting nostalgic on me, are you?" he teased. Maury winked at him and dropped his hand, starting to jog to the bleachers. John put one hand up to hold onto his bag - he couldn't put it on both shoulders yet - and set off after him. When he neared the other Maury simply sped up, and by the time they reached the bleachers they were running and laughing. John dropped his bag and tucked his head down, tackling Maury to the ground. Maury went down with a soft 'oof' and a huff of laughter, tossing his arms around John's back. They hadn't been this free and easy the first time they'd met back here. It was after practice - John was cringing every time he moved, and Maury was having an off day. They'd come back to retrieve their bags as the others dispersed, and Maury had spilled how his father had found his little flat and messed it up, waited there for him to come home. He was talking fast, practically hysterical, and all John had been able to think to do to silence him was grab the collar of his rugby jersey and yank him down into a kiss. It had taken them both by surprise, but even more surprising was when he hadn't been pushed away.  
"You were so fierce," Maury recalled, a smile curving his lips. "You kissed me in a way I couldn't possibly say no to. You still do, you know."  
John traced Maury's lips with one fingertip. "I wanted to be you," he admitted quietly. "Even before I was old enough to be on the team. You made it all look so easy."  
Maury chuckled. "So you settled for being on me instead?" John grinned.   
"Something like that."

John was lying on his belly, plucking blades of grass out of the ground and littering them through Maury's hair. The older boy was on his back, tolerating it with an amused smile. "Hungry?" he asked.   
"I could eat," John replied, eyes falling from the grass dusted hair down to Maury's eyes.   
"Fish and chips?"   
"Sure." John ran a hand through Maury's hair to clear the grass out and stood, brushing off his stomach before offering a hand to pull Tim to his feet. Maury accepted it, scooping John's bag onto his own shoulder and hushing John's protest with a kiss. John made a face at him, but decided to allow it and turned to go. His back went stiff when he saw the only vehicle left in the car park besides Maury's truck was Moriarty's car. And the owner of it was leaning against its side. Watching them.  
"What is it?" Maury asked, turning to follow John's gaze. James was climbing into his car before Maury could see him. John shook his head.   
"Nothing. C'mon, we getting food or what?" Maury smiled and put his arm around John's shoulders, heading for his ute.   
"Who's the bloke in the suit?"  
"Mr M. He's my English teacher," John replied, vaguely alarmed that he wasn't sufficiently creeped out by the fact the man had been watching them.   
"Bit posh for this dump, isn't he?" Maury asked, tugging open the passenger door of his truck and tossing John's bag into the back, holding the door open for him.   
"That's what I said," John replied, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat and rolling his eyes at Maury's gesture. 

When John woke up early the next morning to Maury going down on him, it took his brain far too long to compute that this wasn't a dream, and that the mouth around his cock did not belong to James. Hot shame flushed through him and he pushed it away. John threaded his fingers into Maury's hair and groaned, causing the other boy to look up at him through his eyelashes and smirk as much as he could around his mouthful.   
"Morning," John greeted breathily. Maury just hummed in response, the vibrations making John gasp and drop his head back into the pillows. Later, when Maury was curled into his side looking for all the world like a contented cat about to start purring, John stared at the ceiling, panting softly. "Holy shit. Where did you learn to do _that_?" Maury chuckled and curled an arm around John's waist, tucking his head into the blonde's neck.   
"Might've had some practice."  
"Jesus."  
Maury chuckled dozily, kissing John's shoulder. John turned his head and pushed his nose into Maury's hair. "Would you like me to cook you breakfast or return the favour?" he murmured. Maury's arm tightened around his waist. "I'd like you to stay in bed with me all day."  
"I have to go to school," John replied. Maury groaned and snuggled closer.   
"Do you really have to, though?"  
"Yes," John replied, smiling into his hair. "However, it is Friday."  
"Free first period?"  
"Free first period," John confirmed. He could feel the curl of Maury's grin against his skin.   
"Excellent." Maury slung one leg across John's, and John allowed himself to just curl into Maury's embrace and doze for a little longer. It was when he woke from another sort of dream that had him replacing the man at his side with Moriarty that he decided he really needed to work things out with the teacher. At least talk about the damn kiss. It was that, more than anything, that was really getting to him now. James had been acting as if it had never happened since the moment it had, and it was really getting in the way of John doing - whatever this was - with Maury properly. He was torn between feeling guilty about betraying James by being with Maury, which he wasn't doing at all since Moriarty had no actual claim to him, and feeling guilty for slipping and wanting James instead of Maury. It really wasn't fair to his old friend, or to himself, and he was done with it. When he eventually managed to coax Maury out of bed, he ended up cooking them both breakfast. Maury turned his stereo up loud and they sang and danced around the kitchen to whatever song was playing. John borrowed one of Tim's shirts so that he wouldn't be wearing entirely the same thing to school as he had the day before, and Maury drove him in. When they stopped outside, Maury leant over to catch John's lips in a kiss. John chuckled and returned it quickly, pulling away first. "I really have to get to class. And you have to get to that selectors meeting."  
"That's not for hours," Maury pouted playfully. John gave him a gentle shove.   
"Go make sure the right people get on the team, Maury."  
"You mean you."   
"You know I don't."  
"Go get smart, smart kid. I'll see you later."  
Charlie sidled up to John as he walked down the hall to his Calculus class.   
"Hey slut."  
"Morning," John replied with a mischievous grin.   
"Had a sleepover huh? That's not your shirt, and I saw him dropping you off."  
"That's cheating," John replied. Charlie reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately.   
"Are you happy?"  
He paused too long before he responded to that, and that was enough of an answer for them both. 

When it was time for English last period, John's resolve had only strengthened. For everybody's sake, he needed to talk to James. If only to clear the air over the kiss, to lay to rest the hopes John had been harbouring for things to go further there. Because judging by the way the man had been avoiding him since, John figured he must have regretted what he'd done and decided nothing more was going to happen. Moriarty's eyes lingered on the t-shirt John was wearing for several moments too long when he walked into the room, and John was visited by a strong desire to take it off. Instead he squared his shoulders, holding his gaze on James' eyes until the other man met it. He looked away almost immediately and John's irritation ruffled its feathers. After class, John packed his things quickly and waved Charlie away, standing directly in front of Moriarty as the rest of the class was still filing out behind him.   
"Sir, I need to talk with you."  
James' eyes were down turned, packing away his things. "I'm sorry Mr Watson, I'm afraid I don't really have the time." His voice was strained, tightly controlled. The door clicked shut and John set his jaw.   
"No. This is important," he said firmly. Moriarty's eyes flicked up, took in John's shirt once more then looked away.   
"I don't have time."  
"James!" John exclaimed, on the very verge of stamping his foot like a spoilt child. That, at least, caught his attention, and finally Moriarty met his eyes. "Please. We need to talk about the fact you kissed me, okay? Because this isn't fair."  
There was a flicker in Moriarty's expression. Was that pain? It was gone as soon as it appeared.   
"I have to go," James said, standing up and side stepping to the end of his desk. John cut him off, planting himself between Moriarty and the door and pressing a palm against the man's chest.   
"Don't do that."  
James's pulse jumped under John's hand. There was a long moment where they just looked at each other before Moriarty closed his hand around John's wrist and moved it away.   
"Good luck with your dark haired friend," he said, and was gone before John could protest again. Anger boiled up in John's gut and he kicked the leg of Moriarty's desk.   
"Fuck you, James Moriarty," he spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now Truffle sits quietly and awaits the backlash of this accidental plot arc.


	19. After All This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who can resist a Harry Potter reference?

_You're an idiot, Moriarty.  
You read him wrong.   
No, you didn't read him wrong. You were right. He wanted you.  
But then you fucked it up.   
Yes, you ruined it.   
You scared him away.   
Right into the arms of that university kid.  
At least he's his own age.   
There's not that much of an age difference.   
Less of a difference between him and the one he's with instead.   
Fool, Moriarty.   
You're a fool._

"... And then he just left!"   
John was pacing the strip of floor behind Maury's sofa, venting his frustrations over his attempt to speak with James earlier that day. It was after midnight, and John had gone home after his infuriating encounter to find the place empty. He was going to have to start worrying about that soon. Not yet, though - it wasn't unusual for his father to disappear simply because he could, and his mother to go on benders that kept her jumping from bar to bar for days. And when John worried himself sick over it, they'd come home loaded up and uncaring, and his dad would probably smack him around a bit for his troubles. So he'd written it off, showered and changed, and called Maury. And thus they had ended up here, Maury with his chin resting on the back of his couch, watching John pace back and forth.   
"Bit rude."  
"It's bloody rude!" John agreed, tossing his hands up for at least the third time in his rant. "He fucking kisses me like it's no big deal, then he just pretends it never bloody happened, and now _this_..." he spun on his heel, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and meeting Maury's gaze. They held eye contact for a long moment and eventually, John deflated, shoulders sagging.   
"Sorry," he sighed, walking around to the front of the couch and dropping onto it, lying with his head in Maury's lap. "I'm sorry. How was your day?"  
Maury gave him a small smile and ran his fingers through John's hair. "It was a day. Meeting went as expected - we were all pretty unanimous on who to have in the team."  
"Don't tell me, I want to read the sheet on Monday," John replied, a grin playing over his lips.   
"You have to know you're in the team, John. Nobody could dispute you were the best player last year who's still at school."  
"By which you mean, the best player except for you," John countered. Maury smirked down at him.   
"Well, obviously. You still love him, huh?"   
"Yes," John replied, as though the word tasted sour in his mouth. "But I wish I didn't. I wish I could turn it off."  
"I know the feeling," Maury replied, fingers still carding through John's hair.   
"Cassie?"  
"I'm going to love that girl for the rest of my life, John," he sighed. John made a face.   
"Christ. I hope not, for your sake. And for mine, I hope I don't love him for anywhere near as long as you have her."  
"I'm with you there," Maury agreed. "Let's get drunk."  
"Let's."

'Let's get drunk' began with beer, became shots, and rapidly dissolved into stripping each other down so they could do body shots. Which ended with John sprawled over Maury's chest, both snoring and skin sticky with the residual liquor. John stirred a few hours later, groaning and head still swimming with intoxication. He rolled onto his side, scrunching his nose at the stickiness of his skin but still too drunk to do anything about it. Maury followed the retreating warmth of John's body and wrapped his own longer body around him.   
"'m still drunk," he mumbled into John's neck.   
"Me too," John replied, eyes firmly shut. If Moriarty didn't want him, then fine. Why was he so caught up on him anyway? He had a perfectly great guy right here next to him.   
"Reckon I could love you, John."   
John tried to bury himself in Maury's hair, feeling his blood buzz with adrenaline and alcohol. His blurry mind considered.   
"Reckon I could love you, too."  
They didn't mention it in the morning, if they even remembered the exchange. Instead John, lamenting the state they were in, dragged Maury into the bathroom.   
"Shower," he instructed, shucking his pants and turning on the water. "Then I want bacon. And tomatoes. And so much coffee."  
Maury nodded, blinking owlishly and shuffling after him into the shower. "Remind me not to let you do body shots next time," he mumbled, draping himself against John and half dozing. John propped him up against the wall.   
"Shower, breakfast, then you can go back to sleep," he instructed. They managed to make it through breakfast, and John stayed until he was sufficiently recovered from his hangover.   
"I've really got to go home," he sighed eventually, glancing up at the clock. "I haven't seen my parents in days."   
Maury gave a small huff and pressed a kiss to his cheek before yawning wide. "Want a ride?"  
"Nah, I'll walk. Get some more sleep," he replied, brushing Maury's untended bed head off his forehead. "I'll text you later."  
"When you get home."  
John doubted Maury would still be awake then, but he nodded anyway. "Okay." He walked home, and texted Maury as promised before opening his door. This time, his mother was home, sniffing from the living room. "Mum?"  
"In here, love."   
So she was sober, or at least mostly. That was nice. John dropped his bag on the stairs and headed into the living room. His mother was curled on the couch under a blanket, looking smaller than he'd ever seen her.   
"What's wrong?" he asked, immediately regretting not coming home earlier as he went and sat beside her, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.   
"It's your dad, John. Something went wrong with his car."  
For a heart stopping minute, John thought his father might be dead. And he was relieved. He was free, his mother was free, they didn't have to live under his thumb any more. Almost as immediately he felt terrible for thinking that, and vaguely sick. Where were they going to get the money for the mortgage, for food? His mother's hand was on his knee, and she gave it a light squeeze. "He's in hospital." John's heart did a double beat. Bitter tinged relief flooded him. "Might be there a few weeks." John covered his mother's hand with his own and squeezed back. His mind whirred through their options. He needed to go to the Welfare office, see what he could do. John stood up, tucking the blanket in tighter around his mother's shoulders. "I'll be back later. Do we need groceries?" he asked, already heading back toward the door. His mother confirmed that they did, and he was gone. 

John ended up spending three hours in the line at the Welfare office, then talking with an employee, then waiting in another room, then speaking with someone else, and so on, and so forth. Finally, though, he managed to secure an allowance for his mother while his father remained in medical care. He explained that she wasn't handling it well, and arranged it so that he'd be the only one to pick it up. As he walked to the market, running his thumb back and forth along the teeth of his house key, John thought that this may just be the answer to him and his mother getting by without his father. He knew it would take a lot of effort, that he'd have to constantly get his mother sober and cleaned up enough to go into the Welfare Office and convince people she was looking for a job, but it just might work. He'd just have to work out a way to do that while still focusing on his school work. And keeping up with rugby. And applying for universities at the end of the year. And what happened when he got into one? Well, he supposed it would be fine to stay at home if his father wasn't there.   
Maybe he could actually make it work. 

John made an effort to be home more while his father was in hospital, splitting his days more evenly between being around for his mother, making sure she was fed and bathed while the police came by, rugby practice, and seeing Maury and his friends. The cops were investigating the fault with his father's car - apparently it looked like foul play. John wasn't surprised. A man like his father was good at collecting enemies. He and Maury fell into a pattern, and every few days or so he'd have his mother and the house in good enough shape to invite him around. Since his drunken self had decided to give up on trying to discuss things with Moriarty, and with the teacher making no effort to either make up for what he'd done or explain himself, things between them had settled to mutually ignoring one another. Well, John ignored James and James occasionally looked at him like he could see into his soul. But that wasn't new. Even so, when he and Maury lay together in the dark, and one of them asked the question that was asked at least every few days between them, his answer remained the same.   
"You still love her?"  
"Yeah. You still love him?"  
"Yes."  
It became a sort of mantra, the steady back beat of the relationship they built. It was just a part of it. 

The day John's father was due to be let out of hospital, John was on edge. He'd spent the past several weeks settling into the comfortable niche of carer and provider - in a sense - for his mother and himself, keeping the house in order and planning out his days so that he could get everything in that he needed to do. His father returning... he knew deep in his gut that it was going to fuck it all up. No doubt he'd be back to bruises and avoiding his house as soon as his father's strength was back. He was so fidgety that his mother actually had to hold him down to get him to stay still.   
"I'm going to be fine," she told him firmly, planting a kiss on his forehead. "You go, see that lovely friend of yours. He always seems to put you in a good mood." John chewed at his lip, considering this.   
"You're sure?"  
"Of course I'm sure, love. You've done so well these last few weeks. I'm so proud of you," she said, and John didn't think he'd seen so much warmth in her eyes in years. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight, head tucked in against her chest, even though he'd out grown her years ago.   
"Thanks, mum. I love you," he mumbled. She rubbed his back and pressed a kiss into his hair.   
"I love you too, John. Now go on, off you go."

All he'd needed to say was "Dad's coming home today," and Maury had him inside, playing mind numbing video games in an effort to take his mind off of it. Usually it would have worked, too. But there were a lot of things swimming around his head that day. So instead Maury had taken him into the bedroom and sucked him off until his mind was pleasantly fuzzy.   
"You're too damn good to me," John murmured, curled into Maury's side with his face pressed into his chest.   
"Because you're too damn good for me," Maury returned, stroking John's hair. John made a soft 'pfft' noise. They lay together in silence for a while.   
"How long since you spoke to James?"   
"About a month," John replied softly.   
"Still love him?"  
John sighed.   
"Yeah," he barely whispered. "Cassie?"  
"Yeah."  
A question tickled in the back of John's mind, but he ignored it most determinedly. "You coming to practice tomorrow?" Maury had started coming to the occasional rugby practice to help out with coaching, and often made no secret of staring at John's arse as the team ran the field. John got his own back by having him stand in as the tackle dummy for trials.   
"If you like."  
"Just say yes, you knob. I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you there," John pointed out. Maury chuckled and kissed his temple.   
"Okay, yes. I'll be there."

The tone had started to come back into John's body now that he was working out regularly again. Maury was certainly full of compliments about it, at any rate. The team were out on the field doing press ups when Maury strode across from the car park to stand beside their coach. Once they'd finished their warm up they returned to the coach, who didn't get a chance to speak before King, one of the other guys who had been up for captain, started up his usual round of arguments. "Still too early to contest captainship, coach?" he asked, shooting John a nasty look. He happened to catch him just at the moment he was exchanging a smile with Tim.   
"Shut up, King. You're just going to have to accept that Watson's captain."  
"He's only captain because he's fucking Maury," King sneered. The hair on the back on John's neck prickled and he set his jaw, eyes turning steely as he turned on his team mate. He'd barely opened his mouth to speak when Maury was jumping in.   
"Excuse me, but since when did-"   
"Maury, shut it. King, if you ever come up with a valid reason why I shouldn't be captain of this team, I'll gladly step down. Until that time, I'd be much obliged if you'd kindly shut your damn mouth," John cut in. Maury had gone silent the moment he'd been instructed to, and even the rougher lads on the team had gone a little wide eyed a the tone of command in John's voice. King blinked at him a couple of times, and for a moment John thought he'd won. But then a cruel smile was curling King's lips as he turned on Maury. "Oh, so you're the bitch then? I always kind of figured it was the other way around, 'cos he's smaller an' all, but-" John covered his face with one hand just as Maury swung his fist into King's nose.   
"All right kids, if we could please get on with practice now, that would be great," he sighed, every part the long suffering leader, and even Coach couldn't help an amused chuckle.   
"King, take a walk. You can sit this practice out, and if you carry on like this next time you'll be facing a cut. Maury, reign it in or you won't be welcome either."  
"Go ahead and cut me, Coach," King snarled, spitting at John's feet. "I don't wanna be in a team led by a faggot anyway." John's hands fisted at his sides and he was just barely managed to stay in place. Then, much to his satisfaction, Coach held out a hand expectantly.   
"Your jersey, King. You're out. Lucky for you, I don't want bigots on my team."

Standing in the window of his classroom, James Moriarty's fingers twitched as he watched the King boy spit at John. He watched long enough to see him tug his jersey off and hand it to the rugby coach, then he was gone from the window, stalking around to where he could follow King back to the bike he rode to and from school every day. James made a mental note of which one was his, and another to bring something to school the following day that he could use to cut the brakes with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this stage the fic is kind of writing itself. All the planning I did at the beginning has all but gone out the window, so if there's any inconsistencies coming up that's why and I apologise.   
> As always, all my love to the lot of you.


	20. For The Rest of My Life

John adjusted his bag on his shoulder - it was heavy, and he kept having to shift it back and forth because he'd hurt himself during training. It had gotten dark hours ago, but he'd been determined to walk home anyway. And that had gone fine, right up until the point he became certain that somebody was following him. So far, he'd been doing his best to ignore it. But the footsteps tailing him, almost but not quite in time with his own, had grown closer as he'd turned down this narrow alley. The brick walls on either side of him rose higher than he could see, and two distinct sets of footsteps echoed off them. John weighed his options. Did he run? Give himself a better chance of escape, but make it obvious that he knew his pursuer was there? Or did he just keep walking, pretend like he hadn't noticed them and hope that nothing happened? In the next few moments the footsteps drew closer still and his decision was made for him.  
Run.  
John barely managed to put one foot in front of the other to step into a run when a hand reached out and wrapped around his hip, halting him and drawing him backwards. John spun around, prepared for a fight, and promptly deflated. The hand on his hip drew him in against a warm body, and before he knew it John's back was pressed up against one of the rough brick walls and held there by James's suit clad form.  
"You scared the absolute living shit out of me," John accused, his heart pounding in his chest from more than just the adrenaline.  
"I just wanted to make sure you got home safely," James purred, leaning in and brushing his lips over John's earlobe, his jaw, his throat. "But, since we're alone..." James's hand slid down between them and boldly cupped John through his jeans. The younger bit his lip to prevent a sound from slipping off his tongue.  
"This really isn't-" he began to argue. James shushed him and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, starting to grind the heel of his hand against John's crotch.  
"Hush. No one's going to find us. Just relax," he purred. 

John's eyes snapped open, sleep addled brain recognising the weight of another body on top of his own and telling him it hadn't been a dream at all. But after a beat John pushed the thought away, taking slow breaths to try and calm his racing heart. He'd thought he was over dreaming about Moriarty. But apparently not. And, if the raging hard on that was currently poking into Maury's thigh wasn't enough to go by, then the monumental sense of loss that washed over him at the thought that he'd never really have that was. He was no more over dreaming about James than he was wanting him. Taking him completely by surprise, a sob welled up in John's throat. Jesus. There was an ache in his chest that was entirely unlike the one he was used to. He missed something he'd never had. But more than that, he missed the evenings he'd spent with James, even when they were only discussing class work. John squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to maintain the wall he'd built around all of this that threatened to come crumbling down on him. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

Maury had wanted to drop him to school, but John insisted on walking. He brushed it off as nothing and kissed the other goodbye, but really he needed to clear his head. John watched the pavement almost the entire walk to school, a much longer journey than from his own house, and the whole time he felt like his heart was breaking. Charlie was laughing at something when he found her, but the moment she looked up at him she stopped. Charlie stood up, put an arm around John's shoulders and guided him into an empty classroom. "What's wrong?" she asked. John opened his mouth, intending only to say he'd had a bad night and leave it at that, but instead it all poured out.  
"I don't know if I can keep doing this, Charlie. He scared the shit out of me, but I would have forgiven him in an instant. He kissed me and he refuses to talk about it and now he's avoiding me and I thought it would be okay, I thought I could be with Maury and be happy, you know? But I can't, I can't get him out of my head and I just love him, you know?"  
The words were barely out of his mouth when Charlie was wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a firm hug. John let out a shuddery breath and returned the embrace, letting his friend bring him down in the way only she could. 

_You're going to be late for class._  
James was pacing the hallway of his home, car keys in hand. He'd set a pair of pliers on the table beside the door with the intention of using them to sabotage a student's bicycle. _To what end? To injure him? Kill him, perhaps? And why, because he spat at John? You're a fucking mess._ As he moved back and forth along the hall, James went back and forth in his internal debate. Do it, give the little shit what he deserved. Don't, you're mad. But the loudest argument of all was the one he didn't want to think about, the one he didn't want to acknowledge. _You messed up and you lost him, that means you have to stop thinking like he's yours._

"Thanks, Charlie," John said with smile as they returned to their friends to wait for the first bell. "I didn't realise how badly I needed to just get rid of all of that."  
"Any time," Charlie replied earnestly. "And, look. It's completely up to you and everything, but I think you should probably stop 'messing around', as you put it, with Maury. You're both pretty messed up, and if it's only making you feel guilty..."  
John looked down at his shoes, chewing his lip. "Yeah, you might be right. Just... not yet."  
Charlie nodded, putting her hand on his shoulder.  
"You just be careful okay?"  
Nobody asked where they'd gone or why when they returned, and John was thankful for that. As much as he cared for his friends, there were some things he just didn't want them all to be privy to. He was glad, however, that he'd spoken to Charlie when he had. Because when the bell rang for first period, he realised he'd be seeing James that hour. Steeling himself, he followed Charlie, Peter, Mike and Mary to class and sat in his usual seat, trying not to fidget with his stationery. It immediately struck him as odd when Mr M didn't show up dead on time. When five minutes had elapsed without his arrival a furrow had appeared between John's eyebrows, and at ten he was really starting to worry. Moriarty had never once been late to a class. Then again, he'd been behaving out of character for a while now, but that thought did nothing to alleviate John's concern. 

Even though he'd already scalded his mouth on the three cups of coffee he'd downed earlier, the first thing James did when he arrived at school was make himself another in the staff room. He was going to need it if he was going to keep himself under control while teaching John first class. Standing in the hallway outside his classroom, coffee held in one hand like a life preserver, James shut his eyes and breathed deep. He'd tried so hard to leave all that behind, to not be that person any more. How completely he'd failed... But he could always try again. And he would, he'd try again. He'd succeed this time. For John.

John was on the verge of getting up to go and ask the office if Moriarty had arrived that morning when the man himself pushed the door open, the biggest mug John had ever seen in one hand and his briefcase in the other. John let out a little sigh of relief that was probably too audible, but in that moment he didn't care. James had probably just overslept, that was all. The teacher's eyes scanned over the room and landed on John, and the familiar flutter in his stomach that he been ignoring for weeks hit him so hard he forgot to breathe. Moriarty's eyes widened fractionally, and the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his lips. It was only for an instant, but in that instant John was reminded with full force just how far gone he was for this man. It didn't matter that he was still angry with him, it didn't matter that they hadn't spoken in a little under a month, it didn't matter that even his subconscious brain couldn't seem to decide if he was turned on or terrified by him. All that existed in John's mind was his want, his _need_ to grab James by the collar of his damn suit and yank him into a kiss that seared across his lips like a brand. Then Moriarty was looking away and John was glancing to either side, checking that nobody had noticed the things running through his head. Nobody was even looking at him. John let out a soft breath and glanced at his teacher once more, the heavy throb in his chest telling him all he needed to know.  
He was going to love that man for the rest of his life. 

John was twitchy as he sat with his friends at lunch, turning his apple over and over in his hands. He'd made sure he and his mother had always had enough food while he'd been in charge of the shopping, but he was only able to do so because his father had been in hospital. He knew that his father wouldn't allow it to continue now that he was back.  
"John? You all right?" a voice asked, and he looked up to find Mike watching him. John attempted a smile, but he got the feeling it came out twisted and wrong.  
"My dad's back from hospital. Tonight's going to be the first time I'm home since," he admitted, chewing the inside of his cheek as he studied the apple like it held the secrets of the universe.  
"I'm sure he'll be glad to be home," Mike replied, and John's stomach did an odd thing. While they never talked about it, John had always assumed that his friends knew. About his father, his mother, where the bruises he and Harry had come to school littered with had come from. But judging by the way Mike had brushed off his explanation of his mood, it seemed to John that he didn't have a clue. Another, bitterer thought occurred and John set aside his lunch and stood up. Perhaps he didn't care.  
"John?"  
"I need some air," he nearly snapped, leaving the room just a little too quickly to be casual. He headed for the rugby field, glad for the grey sky to keep the other students off of it. He went and sat on the end of one of the bleachers, staring out across the grass. Of course his friends cared about him. They were his friends, that was kind of in the job description. He was being ridiculous - he was all messed up with his dad coming home and the whole Maury/James thing and it was starting to get to him. That was all. Mike had always been pretty clueless on the whole. It was perfectly likely that he just didn't know. John's stomach churned and he dropped his head forward until it was resting on his knees, sucking in great gulps of air. Sure, he hadn't exactly been happy at the beginning of the year, before Moriarty had come to work here and Maury had come back, but at least it had been easy. At least he had known what to do, how to feel. And more importantly, how to pretend he was fine.

Marking papers in his classroom, James rubbed the sore spot rapidly forming behind his temple and straightened up, stretching out his back. While the overload of caffeine earlier had certainly helped him to remain in control when he'd needed to be - well, he told himself it had. He knew there'd been a slip up, when his eyes met John's and the blonde's gaze wasn't stony and cold like it had been. But that was beside the point - it had also resulted in a rather dreadful crash about a half an hour ago, and now he was suffering for it. Running a hand tiredly through his hair, James turned to look out the window over the gloomy field. Only to spot a familiar crop of blonde hair bent low.  
 _John._  
Moriarty was on his feet in an instant. He was pulling his coat on before his brain had even caught up with his body. He was going to go out there, go to his John, and he was sure as hell going to put things back the way they were. The way they belonged. Where John was with him after school rather than that rugby playing university miscreant. James got as far as wrenching open the door to his classroom when the bell rang to signal the end of lunch. His heart dropped. He had another class now, and students would start arriving for it at any moment. He closed the door, leaning his forehead against the varnished wood. _I'm sorry, John._


	21. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all of your lovely comments. You've been utterly fantastic, and it's really helping me to get this fic written. I love you all so much and I just want to smush your faces and give you cookies.

John stood on the path outside his house, running his thumb back and forth along the teeth of his house key. He'd been standing there, chewing on his lower lip and staring at his front door for a good several minutes, just working up the nerve to go in. He'd had it so good these last couple of weeks - he'd had what he considered a normal life. There'd been food in the cupboard, he hadn't gone to school hungry or bruised. He'd been able to have his... Maury over to his place without having to worry about his father attacking either of them, either verbally or physically. His mother had been about as sober as she got a lot of the time, mainly because John hadn't given her the money to buy alcohol. It had been good. And now it was all going to go to shit. He was trying not to be so pessimistic about it, but at the same time he knew better than to get his hopes up for things to stay the way they had been. Either way, he had to find out eventually. John took a slow, steadying breath, squared his shoulders and stepped forward, letting himself in. 

Sitting in his car on the corner, James's hands clenched tight enough on the steering wheel to make his knuckles go white. He'd been fighting the urge to get out and go to John for as long as the boy had been standing at his own front door. No one should be that hesitant to enter their own home. James just wanted to lift John up above it all, wrap him up and keep him safe from the world. Like he deserved to be. _Because he'll be so safe with you._ Pushing away that bitter voice, James brushed his thumb along his own lower lip. John would be safe with him. Of course he would. John was _his_. His to protect and to keep. All he had to do was remind John of that. 

"John?"  
John hadn't even closed the door behind himself yet when that voice reached him. A frown pulled his eyebrows together and he pushed it shut.   
"What are you doing here?" he replied, putting his bag down on the stairs before walking into the lounge. Harry was sitting on the couch with a mug in her hands.   
"I came to pick up the last of my stuff."  
John gave a short, harsh laugh, remembering the noise of his father rampaging through Harry's room on more than one occasion since she'd left. "You should have known better."  
"You're right, I should have. You know the cops think someone sabotaged dad's car?"  
"Yeah, I know," John replied. "How do you? I thought you were done with us."  
"Police came to question me. Any idea who'd have done it?"   
There was acid on John's tongue, but before he had a chance to spit it there was the noise of his parent's bedroom door opening and footsteps approaching. He turned toward the hall just as his mother appeared in the door.   
"Hello love. Isn't it nice that Harry's here? The whole family back under one roof," she said. Her cheeks were too rosy and her words too slurred. John's stomach lurched and he had to bite back the words he wanted to curse Harry with.   
"Sure. Do you want me to cook dinner, mum?" he offered. He could see from the slight tremble in her hand that she wasn't going to be able to do it herself. She gave him a vacant smile.   
"That would be lovely. Will you stay, Harry?" his mother replied, the look on her face as she asked enough to break John's heart all over again. "Please?"   
John had to close his eyes for a moment. He couldn't look at his mother while she was looking at Harry like that. When he opened them again he'd turned to Harry instead, a hard gleam to his eyes.   
"The old man going to stay in his room?" she asked.   
"He's on a lot of painkillers, he's not supposed to move much..."  
Harry's eyes flicked towards John then back to their gentler parent. "Okay. But not too late." A little bit of the ice that John held in his heart for his sister thawed. He turned and walked into the kitchen, looking through the cupboards.   
"Do I need to cook for dad as well?" John asked.   
"If you don't mind," his mother replied, sitting down on the couch beside Harry. This was something, at least. His mother might have been drinking again, but at least she was happy enough with Harry here. And so long as his father was on bed rest, John might actually be able to keep things close to stable for a while longer. 

Dinner went surprisingly well to begin with, for them. Especially considering John was still extremely bitter towards Harry, his mother hadn't let up drinking during the meal, and conversation would frequently steer towards topics one or all of them wanted to avoided. They'd falter and trail off, and everything would go quiet for several minutes before someone came up with something else to talk about.  
"How's that friend of yours, John?"   
John could practically feel the blush crawling into his cheeks. He fought to push it back down.   
"Maury? He's good. His semester starts soon," he replied, looking down at his plate.   
"Tim Maury?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised and the slightest trace of a smirk on her lips. John shot her a glare. Of course she would remember what had gone on between them before Maury had started university.  
"Back in contact with him, huh? How's that going?" she asked, a challenge flashing in her eyes. Anger flared up in John's gut and he met her gaze.   
"Fine. How's Clara?" he replied, injecting a little more venom into his tone that he really meant to. Harry's smile wavered for an instant and John knew he'd struck a nerve. A sense of victory washed through him and his eyes grew hard, a mirthless smile curving his lips.   
"Fine," Harry replied shortly. John arched an eyebrow at her. "What, trouble in paradise?"  
"John love, how's school?" their mother cut in before Harry had a chance to spill the invective her mouth was clearly full of. John set his jaw, eyeing Harry for a moment longer. As much as he wanted to keep digging his thumbs into the obvious weak spot he'd discovered, this was also the first time they'd seen Harry since she'd moved out. John couldn't care less, but his mother clearly did. So he swallowed down the bitterness his sister evoked in him and forced a smile for his mum. They managed to settle into a more civilised conversation after that, and all was fine until a throat was cleared in the hallway. John barely resisted the urge to flinch and all three of them turned around. Standing in the door frame, skin pale and adorned with new scars, was John's father. The entire left side of his face was bunched with scar tissue, burnt in a way that reminded John disquietingly of Two-Face. He wasn't wearing a shirt, revealing similar burns on his chest and a dressing wrapped low around his torso.  
"Harriet," he said, and his voice had a new rasp to it that it hadn't before. It only added to the uncomfortable sense that he was some kind of Batman villain.   
"Dad-" John began, but his father simply held up a hand to silence him. The flicker of a cringe at the sudden action gave John a little confidence that he wasn't about to start in on them.   
"I thought I made it clear that you weren't welcome back here."  
Harry lifted her chin, holding his gaze. "And I thought I made it clear that I didn't give a shit what you had to say." John watched his father's mouth curl into a sneer and his stomach lurched. Harry stood up from the table.   
"I don't want to be here while he's around. Bye mum," she said, leaning down to press a kiss to their mother's cheek before picking up her bag from beside the couch. "Thanks for dinner, John," she added, meeting their father's gaze as she stepped past him into the hall. There was a definitive click as the door shut behind her.   
"Darling, you shouldn't be out of bed," John's mother was saying, her voice high with nervousness as she started to stand. He waved her off, sitting down at the free space at the table.   
"I've had enough of lying about. John, is there any left over?"   
John nodded, standing up and fetching a plate for his father. He was working hard to keep his comments to himself.   
"Thank you."  
John very nearly flinched at the words as he put down the plate in front of his father. He couldn't remember the last time the man had thanked anyone for anything.   
"You're welcome," he replied, his voice too small. "How are you feeling?" John ventured tentatively.   
"Fine."  
Seemed to be a recurring theme for the Watson clan. 

Later, sitting at his desk spinning his pen in his fingers, John could feel the tension his father had brought back into the house like a hand around his throat. They hadn't seen Harry in months, and the one night she'd returned he'd cast her out again. His mother was drinking again, on edge and nervous, watching her every move to make sure she didn't anger him. Beneath the churning gut and the deep seated fear that were always associated with his father, a flicker of pure hatred kindled in John's soul. He knew he shouldn't hate his own father, but he could hardly be blamed for it, could he? So perhaps he did hate him. Perhaps he'd go to hell for so much as thinking that. And perhaps he deserved to. If I do go to hell for hating him, I don't care, John thought. Just so long as I see him there. John's phone buzzed on the desk beside his hand, making him flinch. With a sigh, he rubbed at his eyes with one hand and put away his homework for the night. The text was from Maury.   
[Everything go all right?]  
John turned his phone over in his hand a few times before putting it down again. He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, chewing his lower lip. After today, even though he and Maury had always been totally honest about their motivations in being together, he felt like he was lying to his friend more than he ever had before. But he really didn't want to be alone tonight. Fuck it, this was exactly why they were doing whatever they were doing in the first place. John grabbed his phone.   
[Sort of. Come round?]  
[I'll be there in ten. Window?]  
[Please.]

John helped to haul Maury in through the window, dragging him in underneath the bedclothes as soon as he'd taken off his shoes and jeans. John pulled the covers up over their heads, enclosing them in darkness before he recalled everything that had happened that evening. Maury just held him and listened, occasionally running his fingers through John's hair.   
"So what exactly happened to him?" he asked when John fell silent.   
"His car just kind of... exploded, I guess. They had some fancy term but that's essentially it," he explained. "The cops wouldn't say as much, but they thought it was a bomb. There's a lot of people who dad's pissed off, so I can't help but think they're right. But apparently they've checked it out and they can't find anything. Shows what good they are," he muttered. Maury shrugged slightly.   
"Or how good whoever did it is."  
"I didn't think of that. I suppose you're right," he agreed. He sighed, then shook his head. "Let's not talk about this any more."  
"What do you want to talk about?"  
John chewed his lip for a moment, shifting so he was straddling Maury's hips. Then he pushed the other boys shirt up, and as Maury lifted his arms to allow it to be removed, John replied, "Nothing."  
"Okay," Maury agreed, leaning up to press a firm kiss to John's lips. He pulled John's shirt off and rolled him onto his back, already starting to mouth his way down John's chest. John gave a soft chuckle, carding a hand through Maury's hair.   
"You're really into sucking dick, aren't you?" he said, half teasing. Maury smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss into the treasure trail just below John's belly button. He looked up, meeting John's gaze.   
"Yeah, I guess so," he agreed, thumbs rubbing back and forth across John's hip bones. He smiled up at him, and it was so sweet it made John's chest ache a little. "I like the sounds you make. But if you'd rather, you could fuck me."  
John blinked at him, the teasing mirth in his expression replaced by surprise. They'd done plenty in the time they'd spent together, but they'd never actually... they'd never even talked about it. And while it hadn't bothered him, he had expected it to come up eventually. But he'd always just assumed Maury would want it to be the other way around. John's lips parted, but he had no response to give. Maury just smiled and kissed his stomach again.   
"We don't have to. Only if you want to, okay?"   
Something lodged in John's throat at that. Maury had always been like that with him, considerate and sweet. But this felt like something more. John swallowed, and he finally managed to make himself speak.   
"Maybe not here. Okay? Just... you know."  
Maury's smile didn't even waver, and for some reason that only hurt more.   
"Okay," he agreed. "Still want me to...?"  
"Only if you actually let me return the favour this time," John replied firmly. Maury nuzzled into the dusting of blonde hair beneath John's navel. "Deal."

John had wrapped himself around Maury as tightly as he could without actually crushing the guy. For some reason it felt more important than it ever had before to be close to him. Their legs had tangled together, and John's head was tucked in against Maury's shoulder. He could feel Maury's heart beat against his chest, his breath ruffling his hair. He was starting to doze off when Maury, clearly nearing sleep himself, asked that familiar question. It almost felt like tradition now.   
"Do you still love him, John?"  
John yawned, turning his head so he could press in just that much closer to the taller boy.   
"Yes," he replied, eyes closed. He was so close to sleep he could barely get the words out. "For the rest of my life." It was an echo of Maury's own words, and they both heard it. "You still love Cassie, Tim?"  
Maury took so long to respond that John thought he might have fallen asleep. John was just slipping under himself when the response finally came.   
"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plot is out of my hands now. Seriously, Maury wasn't supposed to even exist and he needed to have a whole plot arc before I could move on with the plot I had planned. Consequently I reckon there's another maybe six chapters on top of the ones I already had in mind coming up.   
> This was supposed to be done by now -.-


	22. Miss You

"Stop it!" John half hissed, half giggled, shoving half-heartedly at Maury's hands. He had to be one of no more than three people alive who knew John was ticklish. "Seriously! If you wake my parents-" he cut himself off with a giggle, writhing away from him and only managing to get more tangled in the sheets and Maury's arms. "Maury!" John complained in a hushed voice, gasping for air. Maury beamed at him and stilled his hands, swooping down to give him a kiss that was more laughter than breath.   
"You are such a shit," John laughed, framing Maury's face with his hands. Maury grinned wickedly and shrugged.  
"What are you gonna do about it?"  
"Absolutely nothing," John replied, pecking another kiss to his lips. "You want to give me a lift to school?"  
"Sure," Maury agreed, hands sliding up and down John's sides.   
"Okay. I've got to go have a shower. You stay up here, and be quiet," he ordered firmly, his stern expression breaking into a grin. He kissed Maury once more before wriggling out from underneath him, flouncing across the room before pulling on a pair of boxers and grabbing clothes for the day. "Seriously. Quiet," he repeated.   
"Yes, Captain," Maury replied, a grin playing over his lips as he saluted John. Rolling his eyes, John headed downstairs to the bathroom, glad to find his parents were still asleep. It would be more than a little difficult to explain if they weren't. It wasn't until he was in the shower that the words they'd exchanged late last night came back to him. Uncertainty flickered in the back of his mind. He'd been pretty much asleep when Maury had replied, it was entirely possible that he'd misheard, or imagined his response. But if he hadn't... it Maury didn't love Cassie any more, what had changed his mind? And, did that mean there was a chance that John would get over James, too? Even as he thought that, he knew that a significant part of him didn't want to. He'd wanted to get over James since almost the moment he'd realised he was attracted to him, and yet now that he thought there might be hope that he would, he couldn't quite convince himself it would be for the better. He _wanted_ to love James Moriarty for the rest of his life, even if it was completely unrequited.   
You've lost it, John, he told himself. You've gone quite mad. 

"No, no, you're going out the window. They may not be up right now, but I am not explaining to my parents why you appeared in my bedroom overnight," John insisted, urging Maury towards the window. The older boy pouted at him so pathetically that John rolled his eyes and relented - just a little. "Will you stop looking so much like a kicked puppy if I kiss you?"  
Maury considered, his eyes lighting up at just the suggestion.   
"Maybe."  
John chuckled and leant in, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on Maury's jeans. Maury's hips pressed back against the window frame as he gave him a slow, tender kiss before pulling away. He had to chuckle at the slightly dazed expression on Maury's face.   
"Damn, the shit you'd get if I let people know how cute you look when you've been kissed senseless," he teased, stroking a thumb along Maury's jaw. "Go on, out. I'll meet you outside."  
Maury grinned at him, eyes dancing over John's face for a moment before he turned and pushed the window open, slipping out of it and shimmying down the wall. John shouldered his school bag, checking Maury had made it to the ground safely before he closed the window again. Still no sign of his parents when he went downstairs, so he let himself out with a smile on his face. The silver car parked on the corner looked familiar, but he only caught a glance of it as he made his way to Maury's truck and didn't give it another thought.   
"Long time no see," Maury quipped as John climbed into the cab.   
"How did you ever cope?" John replied with a grin, securing his seatbelt. "So, it's kind of early. Want to go to that overhang and make out like the cool kids do?"

Nearly an hour of laughing, snogging and groping each other later, John was jumping out of the cab of Maury's truck by the school gates.   
"Hey," Maury called, leaning across the seats. "Dinner tonight? I'll cook."   
John raised an eyebrow at him. "You can cook?"  
"I can order in and make it look like a cooked," Maury replied. John laughed. "Yeah, okay. Pick me up after practice?"  
"Sure. See you tonight," Maury agreed. John closed the car door and headed into school, almost immediately encountering an extremely smug looking Liam.   
"Had a good morning, John?" Liam asked him, eyeing John's neck. John narrowed his eyes and put his hand over the skin being scrutinised.   
"Yeah. And you?"  
"Yeah. You got stubble burn on your neck, mate," he added with a cheeky grin. John felt his cheeks flare and he had to return the smile.   
"And you've got a hickey the size of a small country. Spill."  
Liam proudly traced the outline of the love bite on his throat, so accurately John knew immediately he must have spent some time studying it in a mirror.   
"You know that bird I've been keen on in my Spanish class?"  
"I know of her," John replied.   
"Well. Turns out she's pretty keen on me, too," Liam proclaimed, smiling so wide his cheeks were practically bursting. John grinned and clapped a hand down on Liam's shoulder.   
"Good for you."  
"Thanks. Same to you, yeah? What's the deal with you two, anyway?"   
John shrugged. "Nothing serious."  
"Right. Hey, did you finish your lab report?"   
John smiled, tugging his biology work out of his bag and handing it over obligingly. He liked that he could say something so flippant and not be pestered about it. He wasn't sure he even knew the answer to that question any more. 

"Someone got lucky," Charlie said as she flopped down on her belly in the grass beside John.   
"Jesus, is it really that obvious? That prick," he grumbled, rubbing absently at his neck. Charlie laughed, pulling her lunch out of her bag. "No, it's not that bad. You just have that look about you. So you didn't quit with Maury, huh?"  
"I told you, not yet," John replied, chewing the inside of his cheek. "We're helping each other out. It's not like it was ever meant to be an emotional thing. Plus..."  
Charlie quirked an eyebrow at him, picking up a sandwich. "Plus?"  
John gave a soft sigh. "He's sweet. And he keeps my mind off stuff when I need him to. And... if I start talking about sex stuff are you going to get weirded out?"  
"Not so long as you don't go into detail."  
"Well, we haven't actually... had sex, as such. Just other stuff. But last night he said he wanted to. And I don't not want to. But when he suggested it, it felt... I dunno. Like I shouldn't. And... well we have this thing," John went on, changing the subject before Charlie could ask him too many questions he didn't want to answer. "Where he'll ask me if I still fancy J-" John cut himself off, realising how close he'd been to giving away the name he'd guarded so closely for so long. He cleared his throat, looking down at the grass he was tugging out of the ground and hastened on. "If I still fancy him, and I'll ask him if he still fancies Cassie. I dunno why we do it, it's just a thing we do. And the answer has always been yes, because, well that's what love is, isn't it? Permanent. But last night... I mean, I could be wrong, because I was pretty much asleep when he said it, but I'm pretty sure he said he doesn't any more. Which is good for him and everything, I mean I'm glad he's not still all messed up over her."  
"I sense a but," Charlie urged.   
"But... well, kind of our whole thing is based on the fact we both love someone else and we were easing the ache of not having them, I guess. So if he doesn't love her any more..." John shrugged. Even he didn't really know where he was going with that train of thought. Charlie had gone quiet, the particular brand of quiet she only ever employed when there was something she knew that you didn't. John looked up at her suspiciously.   
"What is it?"  
"Nothing."  
"You're a terrible liar, Charlie."  
Charlie sighed, nibbling at her lip. "Have you asked him why he doesn't love her any more?"  
"I'm not even sure that I heard him right. We're having dinner tonight, I guess I could ask him."  
"You should," Charlie replied, suddenly very interested in her sandwich. 

John gave himself a minute to prepare before walking into Moriarty's class that afternoon. He felt almost cheated when he thought of how he'd fallen in love with someone so completely out of his reach. Like fate had decided he needed something else to add to the shit storm that was his life. But John had never been one to go down easy, and he wasn't about to start now. Mentally bolstered, John walked into James's classroom and took his accustomed seat between Charlie and Peter. His mind skittered over to the kiss he'd shared with the teacher beside his desk. It could have been a lifetime ago, but at the same time if could have been yesterday. Could Moriarty really be considered that utterly beyond his grasp if the man had kissed him? And without any real prompting, either. Sure, John had flirted with him, but he'd never outright attempted to kiss the man. An almost forgotten burst of hope flared in his chest and John hurriedly stamped it back down. None of that, now. Not when you've sort of got things on track.   
But then James walked into the room and John was reminded just how lost he was. He gave the slightest of sighs, feeling like all the bones in his body had become a little softer. The man's presence was like a blanket, wrapping around him and whispering in his ear. Telling him to relax, that he was safe. John found his eyes were searching out James's before the man had even entirely entered the room. When their gazes met John felt his lips curl into a smile unbidden. I miss you, he thought. God, how badly I miss you. 

He hadn't been able to resist, and so he'd given in and researched the boy that John was seeing. Tim Maury, school rugby captain last year, escaped an abusive father, university on a sports scholarship. James could understand what it was that attracted John to him. He had succeeded in the areas John wished to succeed. But what if it was more than that? _What if John loves him? What will you do then?_ He closed his eyes, pushing the thought away. It would be fine. No matter what John felt for the Maury boy, he would still be his. In the end, John would always be his. And when James stepped into his classroom that evening and his eyes found John's, his conviction was only strengthened. There was sadness in the boy's eyes, and James could feel the echo of it in his own heart. _I miss you, my John,_ he thought, as though John could hear him. _So badly. But don't you worry. I'm going to make this better. You'll be with me again soon. My beautiful John._

"You coming with?" Charlie asked as Mike and Mary walked over to join them. John shook his head.   
"I've got rugby. Have fun though," he replied.   
"I'll do my best. Everything's just so hollow without you," Charlie joked, leading the way out of the classroom. John split off from them in the hall, heading to the locker rooms to change. He jogged out to the field to find the coach already waiting, and a couple of the others from his team.   
"Start warming up while you wait, boys," Coach instructed. "Maury coming today, Watson?"   
John shrugged, starting to stretch out his legs. "He will be, but I dunno if it'll be before the end of practice. You actually admitting he's useful to have around, Coach?" he asked, unable to keep the grin from his face.   
"Gotta keep my team's moral up," was the Coach's only response.   
By the time practice was rounding up for the day, a few teachers and one or two students who had stuck around late had gathered at the edge of the field to watch. As soon as Maury had arrived the Coach had roped him in to being on the other side of the tackle dummy, taking advantage of the fact he had the strength from his own rugby training.   
"No!" Coach growled as one of the newer guys flopped to the ground after hitting Maury wrong and hurting himself. "Watson, show him." John sighed and jogged over to his downed team mate, offering him a hand. He helped the kid to his feet and talked him through how to tackle properly, then showed him. He made the kid copy his actions.   
"Much better," Coach called, and John clapped a hand over the kid's shoulder.   
"Thanks, John," he said shyly, and John grinned.   
"No worries. Do it again, see if you can shift Maury."  
When the newbie's next tackle made Maury stumble, John was certain he'd never seen the kid smile so wide. During their warm down, John led the team past the onlookers at a jog. His stomach did a flip when he saw James was among them, and he managed to flash the teacher a smile without (he hoped) making too much of a fool of himself. That man really had no right looking so good in the sun. Especially when John was tired and sweaty and dirty.   
Practice was called and the team headed into the lockers to shower and change. When John emerged again Moriarty was gone, but Maury was sitting waiting for him.   
"You did good with that kid today. Knew you'd make a good captain," he said, draping his arm easily around John's shoulders. John shrugged.   
"You let him move you, didn't you?"  
"Just a little," Maury admitted.  
John chuckled, sliding his arm around Maury's waist. "You big softie. So, what are you cooking me for dinner? I'm starved."  
Maury brushed a kiss into John's damp hair. "You'll see."


	23. Before We'd Begun

Upon reflection, John realised he should have seen it coming sooner. Of course, one does not have the benefit of hindsight until after the fact, no matter how much one might have liked it. Honestly though, the way Maury opened the door and bowed John inside was something of a hint. John just laughed it off and walked inside, doing his best not to end his laughter too abruptly when he saw Maury's tiny dining space had been entirely cleared out. His table was actually set - John hadn't even known he'd owned some of the things that were laid out - and there was a bundle of wildflowers sticking out of a glass in the middle of it. John shook himself free of the panic that was slowly creeping up his gut and waltzed over to the couch as he would on any other day, flinging himself across it.  
"To the kitchen then, hot stuff," he said with a grin, legs dangling over the arm of the sofa. Maury saluted him. "Yes, Captain," he replied, putting on a show of marching towards the fridge. John rolled his eyes, toying with a loose thread on his trousers distractedly. Why had Maury set the table? They barely ever ate there, and when they did it was usually just out of whatever container the take out of choice came in. After a few moments of listening to the guy rustle around in the kitchen, John decided that he was probably just trying to do something nice. It was a sweet gesture - another in a long list of sweet gestures Maury had made for him. Nothing to tie yourself up in knots over. This settled, John popped his head up over the back of the couch, folding his arms and resting his chin in the cradle of them. Maury was bent low, putting something into the oven. John wolf whistled at him.  
"Nice arse."  
Maury grinned over his shoulder, waggling his hips in response. While he waited for whatever it was to cook he vaulted over the back of the couch, positioning himself between John's legs and nudging at him until he could lay across the younger boy's chest, lips brushing the corner of his jaw. John hummed and slotted his hands up underneath the back of Maury's shirt, tilting his head back as he started to move down his throat.  
"Offer's still there, you know," Maury murmured a few minutes later, stubble scratching at the point where John's shoulder met his neck.  
"Huh?"  
"You know," Maury replied softly, still talking to John's throat rather than his face. He wriggled his hips slightly, pressing back into the hand John had anchored on his arse. "The sex. No pressure though. Only if you want to."  
That same disquieting jolt of what might almost have been fear ran along John's spine as had done the first time Tim had brought this up. Why? It wasn't like the idea repelled him in any way. In fact, he was all for it. But, oddly, only the idea of it. When faced with the reality, he didn't seem so keen. Was it just because it was Maury? Or... did he just not want that at all? John dismissed that quickly. He had plenty of evidence to support his sexuality, there was no need to start questioning that. When he didn't reply, Maury nuzzled into the soft, bunched fabric of his shirt.  
"If you're not ready or whatever, I get it. It's cool. Really," he said, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat before lifting his head. That gave John a chance to compose himself.  
"You're sweet, Maury," he said, for what felt like the thousandth time. "Thanks. Seriously."  
He knew very well he didn't need to reply for Maury to understand it was still a no. He didn't seem to mind though. They made out for a while longer, and even though John warned Maury not to get distracted and burn the place down, he still had to force him to go when the oven timer went off. As it turned out, what Maury had prepared for dinner was John's favourite dish - something that the year before, John had so appreciated Maury making for him that in return he'd given the older one of the most memorable orgasms of his life. He had to chuckle a little at the sight of it. With a knowing smirk, Maury waved him towards the table.  
"Come on then," he said, and John would have thought nothing of it if it weren't for the fact he held John's chair out for him. It wasn't until they were nearly done with the meal that John brought it up.  
"You're being awfully gallant this evening," he said warily. Maury returned with a charming smile that was noticeably nervous at the edges.  
"Am I not allowed?"  
"Well, as far as I'm aware, it's not any special day. So what's the occasion?"  
Maury shifted in his seat a little. The action so starkly uncharacteristic it set off the tiniest, faintest alarm bells in the furtherest corner of John's mind. Maury shrugged. Charlie's words came back to him, and after a moment the proverbial light bulb flicked on over John's head.  
"What are we doing?" John asked softly, understanding settling heavy in his gut. He felt like he'd eaten too much. Maury let out a breath, and when he spoke it was so hesitant John couldn't doubt that he was right.  
"We're... well, I... I mean, I was kind of hoping that.... I've been meaning to ask you." Maury's eyes were flitting over John's face. "If... you'd like to - to date. Me. Properly," he managed eventually, expression guarded but still suffused with hope. As much as he'd been expecting that, hearing it out loud made John's heart drop into his stomach. Fucking shit. How the hell was he supposed to handle this without losing the closest confidant he'd ever had?  
"Maury, when we got into this, we both made it very clear that... well, you were in love with Cassie. So when you said you weren't any more... what made you change your mind?" John asked, deciding that waiting too long to respond was only going to mess the guy up more. Maury's tiny smile wavered across his lips.  
"I thought you knew."  
Oh no. Oh, god no.  
John took a deep breath.  
"I can't, Tim. I'm sorry."  
For an instant, there was so much hurt in Maury's face that John swore he could feel his heart break. Then the old mask slipped into place and that was worse. Maury threw him that easy, flat smile that he could see right through.  
"Of course. I get it. Just thought I'd give it a shot."  
"Please don't do that. You've always known that I love him. You and I were never supposed to be about..." John trailed off, guilt churning his belly. He didn't know what else to say. Maury's mask faltered and his smile fell away. He looked down, and John instinctively reached out to take his hand. Maury didn't pull away from the touch as John half expected him to. "I'm sorry," he repeated. Maury nodded, still not quite looking at him.  
"I know. I was dumb."  
John gave his hand a gentle squeeze. A panicky flutter in his chest told him that if he let go now, it would be the last time he got to touch Maury like this.  
"Do you want me to go?" he asked. Maury shook his head, a sad smile on his lips when he finally met John's eyes.  
"No. Not yet. Please?"  
"Of course."

Needless to say, John wasn't exactly in the best mood at school the next day. He and Maury had parted on fairly good terms that night - they'd talked it out, and Maury had dropped him home. But it still felt like the end of more than just the good thing he'd had going. Like he was losing something he'd loved, if not in the way Maury had come to love it. John spent a lot of time wondering what might have gone differently, had it not been for James, had the timing been different. If indeed they would have gotten together properly if this that and the other had or hadn't happened. Charlie had guessed immediately what was up, but he'd tried to avoid talking about it to anyone else beyond the most basic of details. He was still fairly distracted when it came time for English class, and then his thoughts only got worse. That it was Moriarty's fault sweet, caring Maury was in the state he was in. That maybe John had been leading him on - all because he was caught up on a guy he was never going to have. But when those impossible dark eyes met his own and his breath disappeared from his lungs, he knew there was nothing he could have done about it. He was lost. And, as always, James managed to make him feel better. This time by announcing the topic they were moving on to. Shakespeare. One of John's most treasured positions was a somewhat battered copy of The Complete Works. Back when he was young enough for such things to be permitted, his mother had read it to him before bed. He hadn't really understood it much then, but she'd simplified the stories for him, and when she was sober enough she'd even done different voices for different characters. He'd read it over a couple of times since, and some of his favourites several more times again.  
"We'll be starting with the sonnets," James announced, picking up what was clearly his own copy of The Complete Works off his desk. It was the sort of thing John had only gazed at longingly in book store windows - red covers and gold edged pages, a matching red and gold braid page marker. "I'm sure some of you will have copies of Shakespeare at home, but for those of you who do not I have made all the texts we will be studying available at the library. You can pick up the sonnets book after this class. For now I'm going to read out one of those that he put to music, then we're going to talk about it. So take notes." There was a pause, and a brief shuffle as note pages were found and opened to. Then James cleared his throat, scanned his eyes around the classroom, and when they landed on John, he began.

_"On a day, alack the day!_  
 _Love, whose month was ever May,_  
 _Spied a blossom passing fair,_  
 _Playing in the wanton air:_  
 _Through the velvet leaves the wind,_  
 _All unseen, 'gan passage find;_  
 _That the lover, sick to death,_  
 _Wish'd himself the heaven's breath._  
 _'Air', quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;_  
 _Air, would I might triumph so!_  
 _But, alas! My hand hath sworn_  
 _Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:_  
 _Vow, alack! For youth unmeet:_  
 _Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet._  
 _Thou for whom Jove would swear_  
 _Juno but an Ethiope were;_  
 _And deny himself for Jove,_  
 _Turning mortal for thy love.'"_

And he'd thought he'd been lost before. James's eyes would flicker away from his own now an again, but it was almost exclusively to John that he was reciting the poem. Surely that couldn't just be coincidental, he thought. It could simply be wishful thinking, of course, but... John couldn't help himself. They way the slightest accent curled into Moriarty's voice as he enunciated each word, the way it made the whole thing sound smooth, like a spell he was weaving around John's brain as he held him pinned there with that impenetrable gaze... John only realised he hadn't taken down a single note when Peter jostled him with his elbow. "Working hard there John?" he teased lightly, nodding to the blank page. John's heart skipped in his chest and he fumbled around for a response, but was more than relieved when Charlie jumped in.  
"John's a giant Shakespeare nerd. He probably knows all the words. Backwards," she informed their friend, putting on an expression of mock distaste.  
"While I'm sure that's an impressive skill to have, I can't imagine they have quite the same impact when recited backwards, Miss Bradbury," James's voice suddenly replied, much closer than he had been a second ago. Charlie actually jumped. John was pretty sure his pupils just dilated. He hastily looked away before the others could notice, but for a fraction of a second Moriarty's eyes locked with his own.  
"Now, would you like to tell me your impression of this particular verse?" James went on. Charlie cleared her throat, hurriedly arranging a response.

Charlie wasn't really watching John practice, but her eyes were sort of following him as he went down with a grunt. Her attention was focused on Tim Maury, who'd taken up a spot next to her in much the same moment.  
"Hey red," he said lightly.  
"Hey, Maury. All right?" she replied.  
"All right. You?"  
"Yeah. John told me what happened with you guys," Charlie went on, never one to beat around the bush. Maury offered her a flicker of a smile, his eyes on the field. He didn't reply. They watched John and his team go back and forth for a few minutes in silence before she spoke.  
"Couldn't get over him, huh?"  
This time, the sound Maury made was the sound of pure heartbreak. It was so close to a sob Charlie turned to him to make sure he wasn't actually crying. Their eyes met for a moment before he turned back to the practice.  
"I couldn't in all the years while I was at school here, could never really replace him with Cassie, couldn't even do it while I was away at uni. I cannot get that handsome piece of shit out of my head Charlie, let alone my heart."  
Charlie draped an arm companionably around Maury's shoulders. She remembered what John had told her the day before, about what the two had talked about most days they saw each other. "Do you really love him, then?"  
Maury's shoulder's slumped under her arm and he leant into her touch a fraction.  
"Red, I am going to love John Watson for the rest of my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Goodbye My Lover - James Blunt.
> 
> I know I've had a lot of people saying they didn't want Maury to get hurt, and I really didn't either. Every time I read one of those comments I felt bad, because I've had this bit of his plot arc planned out pretty much since he stepped on the scene. I'm sorry Tim. I'm sorry to everyone who, as I do, just wants to give him cuddles and someone to love him and bring him flowers every once in a while, too.  
> Also I may or may not have been unable to sleep the night before I wrote this and instead stayed up and read Hamlet and all of Shakespeare's sonnets instead. I also have a Complete Works of which I am very fond. I have not slept since then, either, so at this stage I'm just waiting to pass out in the middle of the living room floor or something. Everything's going a bit wobbly.


	24. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I had some real serious big life stuff happen, and as I'm still facing potential homelessness, I've been pretty busy and pretty stressed. The plot of this fic kind of derailed itself and I needed to go through and gather everything before I was able to continue, and real life stuff just kept getting in the way. I'm back now though, and hoping to go back to updating as frequently as I was before. A thousand and one apologies for tardiness. Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> #notdead

Practice disbanded for the day and the team started off towards the changing rooms. Maury glanced at John's retreating back and stood up, giving Charlie a small smile.  
"I'm going to split before he's done. Reckon I should probably take a bit of a break from him while I sort my head out," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Charlie raised an eyebrow at him.  
"Not sure if that's the best strategy, Maury."  
Maury shrugged. "Works for me. I'll catch ya," he replied, heading off towards the car park. As she watched him leave, Charlie's gaze rolled over Mr M, sitting on the low stone wall in front of his class. She considered how long it was going to take John to shower and change, then decided she had time.  
"Hey, Mr M."

James had been a million miles away when the red headed girl - she was John's friend, Charlie - sat down beside him. He gave her a cordial smile in greeting. "How can I help you, Miss Bradbury?" he asked, pushing aside his wandering thoughts.  
"I just wanted to talk about John quickly," she replied. Charlie's tone was mostly casual, but there was an undertone of seriousness in it that he'd never heard her use in class. His stomach clenched a little at the possibility John had told her about the kiss. He hadn't expected John to tell anyone - he wasn't the type - but he seemed close to this girl. It was entirely possible that he'd told her, and that did not mean good things for James. His feelings aside, if anyone found out that he was fraternising with one of his students in such a way he was going to face serious scrutiny. And he was liable to lose his job at the school entirely. How would he see the boy then? There was only so many times you could 'coincidentally' run into someone on the street, especially considering the area of town John lived. It was clear the girl hadn't told anyone else yet, or James would already be facing repercussions. A dozen ways to convince her to hold her silence ran though his head in the instant before she spoke again.  
"Since we've just started this new topic, and all. I just wanted to ask you to be a bit... careful about it," Charlie went on, utterly oblivious to Moriarty's thoughts. "John's really into Shakespeare and everything, but it's sort of a sore spot for him. His mum used to read it to him all the time, before she-" Charlie stopped herself, hesitating. She was clearly choosing her words carefully. James was busily scolding himself for immediately assuming that she would have been harbouring ill intentions toward him. She'd never proven herself to be anything but kind hearted in class, and if John was so close to her she couldn't be otherwise. He ought to have known better. None the less, he was relieved to find it was only out of her concern for John that she was speaking to him. He couldn't lose what chance he had to be around John. And this conversation was making him rapidly grow fond of Charlie.  
"-before she got sick," Charlie finished. "Thought I'd warn you that he might get a bit odd about it."  
Moriarty smiled at her, and she looked a little taken aback for a moment. He realised it was likely the first time he'd had reason to really smile at her.  
"Thank you for the warning, Miss Bradbury. I'll keep it in mind. It's good of you to be so concerned for him," he added. Charlie looked at him for a moment, seeming unsure of how to react to that. Her eyes flicked away, toward the changing rooms were the team was starting to emerge.  
"He's my friend," she said simply. "Thanks, Mr M. I'll see you tomorrow." James watched as she stood up and walked away from him, back to where she'd left her bag on the bleachers. His eyes wandered over the rugby players until they found John, deep in conversation with the coach. He looked good in the sunlight, James thought; hair and skin turned golden by the sun, the new tone in his arms impossible to ignore under his t-shirt. He looked so full of energy, so alive. The younger man nodded and parted ways with the coach, eyes scanning the field. For a moment they landed on Moriarty, and the smile that flickered across his lips had James temporarily reconsidering his religious view points. _All the people you've met and you end up losing your heart to a seventeen year old,_ James thought. _Now that I never would have picked._

John hoped no one could see the way his heart leapt into his throat when he saw that Moriarty had come to practice again. He wondered why the man was still sitting there after everyone had cleared out, and took a step towards him to go and ask. Uncertainty ran through him, making him pause. James wouldn't want to talk to him. He didn't any more. Not since he'd kissed him. Why had he done that at all, if he hadn't wanted to? If it was only going to make him avoid John, then why... was it pity? Or worse, was it some kind of mockery? Just another thing to remind John that he wasn't good enough for someone to want him back. That maybe his father was right and he deserved everything the man said and did. John's stomach twisted uncomfortably and he turned away from Moriarty, remembering Charlie was waiting on him. He continued on his way over to her, cursing himself for being so stupid as to turn Maury away when he was the only thing that made John feel like he was worth anything. Then he realised how horrible it was to think like that when his friend had so clearly been upset by the rejection and guilt replaced everything else. His shoulders slumped and his gaze fell to the grass as he reached Charlie. She immediately pulled him into a one armed hug and began to talk fast about the place they were headed and what flavours of ice cream they could get there. Anything that could take his mind off whatever was causing the ache in his chest. John appreciated it, but he knew he didn't deserve it. 

It had been clear from the Maury kid's behaviour at practice earlier that, as James had suspected, the two of them were no longer involved. So why hadn't John come up to him? He'd clearly been about to, he'd even taken a step in his direction. James scowled and ran a hand through his hair, frustratedly pacing his living room. _It was because you scared him away,_ a determined thought informed him. _You let yourself slip in front of him, just for a moment. And he realised that you are just as bad as his father._ James snarled aloud at that, kicking the corner of his sofa far too hard and coming to a halt as pain shot through his foot. "I am so much better than him," he growled, dropping into the seat and yanking off his sock to check he hadn't damaged anything. "He is scum. He doesn't deserve to be around John," he went on, flexing his toes a little more roughly than he ought to have. A hiss left his lips as fresh pain burnt through his entire foot and up his leg. He sighed, getting up and limping to his kitchen to get some ice. _I'm going to protect him from that man. I'm going to save him,_ he told himself firmly. _I'd never hurt him._

When John came home, his mother was sitting out in the back garden, head resting against her chair and gazing up at the sunset. His stomach sank when he saw her, knowing immediately from the spaced out expression on her face, slack lips and glassy eyes, that she was out of her mind. Painkillers, no doubt. His father was prescribed some strong ones, but he wouldn't have tried to hide them from her. Feeling suddenly nauseous, John stepped into the house and tried to get to his room silently. Unfortunately that was not an easy task, and a cold voice halted him half way to the stairs.  
"And where the bloody hell have you been?"  
Swallowing back panic, John turned to where his father was standing in the doorway to the living room, pained creases at the corners of his eyes. One of his arms was held close to his body, clearly being favoured. "I had rugby, then I was out with Charlie," he replied flatly.  
"Who's Charlie? What's he do?" his father demanded. John shook his head slightly.  
"She's my friend. We go to school together."  
"She?" the man repeated, a sneer coming onto his lips. "You fucking her?"  
"No, dad, strangely enough I've learnt that the sole purpose of women is not to use however I feel like," John snapped back. A familiar steely look came into his father's eyes and John immediately regretted his words, taking a half step backwards. He wanted to run, but he didn't get the chance before his father's good arm was snapping out and grabbing him by the front of his shirt, dragging him in. He hadn't expected the man to be able to move so fast in the state that he was in, and for a moment John was stunned.  
"Don't you talk to me like that, boy," Watson senior snarled in his face, lips curling back over his teeth like a feral dog.  
"Let me go," John demanded, grabbing his father's wrist and trying to free himself.  
"I am your father, and you will show me some respect."  
"I'll start respecting you when you start deserving it," John shot back, and suddenly he was moving - being thrown sideways into the door frame. John cried out in surprise, raising his hands to shield himself. His movements were too slow and the side of his face collided with the wood.  
"You've been prancing around like suddenly you're the man of the house," his father was saying as he hauled John back upright. Pain was bursting through his cheek and he raised a hand to cover it, glaring at his father.  
"Going around taking handouts from the government and doing the shopping like a girl," he spat, releasing John with a backwards shove. "You're pathetic," he tacked on. John took a vicious pleasure in seeing pain in his father's eyes at the shove and his reflexive movement to protect his injured side.  
"I've done more for mum since you've been gone that you ever have," John growled back, having caught himself against the stair railing. "You're the one who's pathetic." Rage flared in his father's eyes and John turned and fled to his room, taking advantage of the fact the man was still injured and couldn't run as fast as he could. He locked his door and hastily dragged his dresser in front of it, heart hammering. Fuck. He'd thought his father might actually have changed for the better since his accident. He supposed he should have known better than to hope a man like that would ever change. John wrapped a blanket around himself and crawled under his bed. Only then did he realise he was shaking, a sob welling up in his throat. A week ago, everything had been so good. Everything had been great. His father had been safely away from him, he'd had Maury, his mum had been as good as sober, they'd had money and food... and now everything had gone to shit. Naturally. History should have been enough proof that people like him didn't get to be happy. You had to earn happiness, and he'd done nothing to be worthy of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one should be surprised by now that all I seem capable of is causing my characters pain.


	25. Streets of Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all of your lovely thoughts and words, you help me so much when I'm in a bad space. Quick update on Truffle's life, I have found a job! I am a real person again, I can pay my rent and buy food! Hooray! Seriously guys, all your comments have been such a help in keeping positive. Thank you so much. You guys are the fucking greatest.   
> The job does mean I am away from home four days a week, and so may not have all that much time to put into this fic, but any spare time I do have goes into it. When I'm not trying to catch up on sleep, that is. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I adore you all.   
> Quick warning - there is some heavy stuff coming up here. But I hope it's worth it?   
> Chapter title from Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits.

John's hands were shaking as he dressed himself for the day in his best jeans and a neat button up shirt, collar firmly pressed. He needed to look adult today. Responsible. The side of his face had coloured up, swirls of darkening purple decorating his skin. He used a little of the foundation he'd pinched off Harry years ago to try and disguise it. His skin tone was closer to hers than it was to their mother's, and he'd been hiding injuries long enough to learn that things like that were important. With a little time he succeeded in making it so the bruise was almost unnoticeable if you weren't looking straight at it, though it was pretty obvious that he was wearing make up. He figured he could take it off before he got to school. Then again, he wasn't sure if it would be better to show up with the make up or the bruise. There was really only one person that would notice, and John didn't really know what he'd rather Jim saw. With his bag packed, John carefully removed his dresser from its barricade position and slipped out of his bedroom door, making completely certain there was no movement downstairs before heading out the back door. It was early still, and his parents weren't awake. Which, as usual, suited him just fine. It wasn't too early for the welfare office to be open, though. With any luck, they wouldn't have heard that his father was out of hospital and John would be able to pick up their cheque for at least a couple more weeks. That way at least they wouldn't starve. He walked the familiar path across his lawn and down the alley way that lead behind his house, through the quiet streets to the office where already there were others like him. A heavily pregnant woman with a small child sleeping in the cradle of her arm was talking to one of the clerks in a hushed tone. He was shaking his head. She looked upset. Beside her a old man with hands curled into claws by arthritis was struggling to hold a pen long enough to sign a form. John stood in line behind two skinny kids with hollow eyes and ragged coughs, and a man not many years older than himself with slumping shoulders and tobacco stained fingers. His father called the welfare office a gathering place for rats. In his mind people who couldn't support themselves didn't deserve to be supported by others. John looked at it like a last resort for desperate people. And he felt no shame in counting himself amongst the desperate. Only a low burning anger, tucked away for the day he could finally use it without getting burnt. 

John put on his best polite smile and stepped up to the waiting clerk. She was smiling too, bright and wide but not in a way that reached her eyes. They were tired, and he could tell from the way one of her hands was clutching a still mostly full coffee cup that she hadn't had a chance to properly wake up for the day yet. There was no enthusiasm in her expression for her job. No genuine desire to help the people that were lining up to ask her for it. John's heart hardened against her before either of them had even said a word. But he did his best not to let her see it.   
"Good morning," he greeted warmly.  
The woman returned the salutation, then added, "How can I help you?"  
John explained what he had come for, feeling his body preparing itself as though for a fight. The woman nodded, blank and uncaring behind the painted on smile. John watched as she relinquished her hold on the mug with clear reluctance, and it was obvious just what was more important to her right now.   
"What was your name?"  
"John Watson," John replied, and waited as the clerk's fingers danced across her keyboard. John could never understand how people could type like that. He still pecked away at the keys with two fingers, even though all his friends seemed able to write a novel in the time it took him to clear a sentence or two. He was asked for his address, then his parents' names. The clerk's smile faltered for a moment, then she turned her face back up to him, away from her screen.   
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid your mother is no longer eligible for this benefit, sir."  
John could feel the fragile picture of an okay life he'd been clinging to beginning to crumble in his fingers. His already rapid pulse began to climb. Fight or flight. Run. Defend yourself. John swallowed hard, forcibly holding his smile on his face.   
"Er, sorry. Why not?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Dread dropped into his gut, heavy and dark.   
"Your father has been released from hospital, Mr Watson. He is now capable of earning an income again. Therefore we can no longer provide your mother with financial assistance," she explained patiently. The blankness in her eyes made John feel cold all over. This woman had no appreciation for the fact she was effectively destroying any kind of hope John had left. Even if she had known, John doubted she would have cared. Clearing his throat to clear the lump out of it, John replied, "But he's not. He's not working. We still need to eat." His voice had nearly wavered and he cut himself off before it could. The woman blinked up him a couple of times before realising how she was supposed to react. She quickly rearranged her face into a mask of sympathy. If she had been faster it might have been convincing. If it weren't for her eyes, of course. Black and unfeeling, like the eyes in stuffed crows.   
"I'm sorry, Mr Watson. But it's out of my hands. The stipulations of your mother's financial assistance was that we provide it while your father remained incapable of working."  
John flexed his hand at his side, balling his fingers into a fist then releasing it, over and over. Adrenaline flooded into his system.   
"We still need-," he began through clenched teeth. The woman's eyes had moved away from him. She didn't care. John cut himself off, firmly clamping down on the emotions that were warring for prime place in his chest. "There's no way?" The teller's eyes lifted to him for a mere moment before dropping away again. She'd lost interest, and John hated her for it. Hated her for her casual disregard of the fact she was sentencing him to starve.   
"I'm sorry, Mr Watson. It's out of my hands."  
John didn't bother with the pleasantries as he turned and left, jaw set hard. Outside, he snarled at a wooden fence and slammed his palm against it hard enough to make the whole thing shake.   
"Fuck. Fuck!" he hissed, kicking a stone that was lying on the alley floor much harder than he ought to have and watching it bounce against the opposite wall. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

Once he got to school John didn't go to find his friends. He went to his first class of the day and sat at his customary desk, glaring at its battered surface. He was early enough that the teacher of this class hadn't arrived, and so there he sat, alone and fuming. Alone was just fine. He could handle alone. It didn't matter to him that no one was there beside him, did it? Why should that matter? He didn't need anyone, anyway. Or so he was insistently trying to convince himself as he sat at the old school desk reading its scribbles and graffiti, wishing that he was a thousand miles away from all of it. Eventually the bell went in the hallway outside and other people began to trickle into the classroom around him. The teacher barely glanced at John, head down and expression stormy. People didn't ask what was wrong. Not of people like John. Not in a place like this. And that was just fine. He didn't need anyone. John let himself be swallowed in the shallow, predictable rhythm of his school day. That, at least, was reliable. In this aspect at the very least he wasn't having the rug pulled out from under him. He couldn't handle any more of that, not today. Somehow in this fashion he managed to pass the time through to lunch break, when again, he didn't go to find his friends. If they could really be considered his friends. Sure, they'd all acted chummy to him, and he to them. But that didn't mean they were his friends, did it? He went out to the rugby field instead and sat down underneath the bleachers, intentionally sitting by the stand that didn't have any Maury-centric memories attached to it. He would have been content to pass the rest of the day here - why go to class anyway? Why bother? - But this plan was rudely interrupted a short time before the first bell for fifth period. Tucked in under the bleachers, he wasn't noticed. But he noticed the two angry men coming towards him. He turned towards the arguing voices, watching through the wooden seats as the coach of his rugby team approached with another man hot on his heels. He was older, starting to grey around the temples, but still clearly in good shape. There was something oddly familiar about the set of his face. John didn't have long to puzzle over it before the two men stepped apart and the reason why he seemed familiar was revealed. Walking close between them was King, the guy Coach had kicked off the team. It was obvious the older man was his father. The resemblance was unmistakeable, and as they drew closer John's assumption about what they were arguing over was confirmed.   
"... is clearly a better candidate for captain than some little fairy ponce," King's father spat, the colour in his cheeks as high as his ire. John's stomach rolled. He was probably right. King would probably have been a better captain than he was. King didn't have the kinds of issues John had to deal with - he'd be less distracted from the team.  
"Look, Mr King, I'm not about to just stand by and let anyone on my team abuse anyone else, you understand? Your son -" Coach was defending his actions. Well, sure. He was obliged to, wasn't he? Regardless of his opinion.   
"Was in the right!" King's father cut in, and King nodded, arms crossed over his chest and looking all together too smug. "You can't just have faggots on a sports team. What if he starts looking at my kid in the showers? I know what those locker rooms are like, I've seen the movies."  
"What you seem to be overlooking is the fact that your son was being abusive towards Watson. John isn't about to molest anyone, let alone him," Coach went on, jerking his thumb towards King. "No one's sexuality makes them a bad person, Mr King. But a boy's upbringing can turn him into an abuser, and that's what your son has become."  
John watched the rage on King's father's face turn from indignant to the kind of terrible he knew meant nothing but trouble.   
"What are you inferring?" It was a low hiss, accusatory.   
"I'm not inferring anything," Coach returned evenly, though his own anger was equally obvious. "What I'm _insinuating_ , Mr King, is that your son has been taught it is okay to use abusive language towards others."  
The voices are fading now as the two men and King move away from him, but John still hears the older's affronted squawk.   
"How dare you! You have no right to tell me how to parent my child! I'm going right to the top with this, you understand? I'll have you sacked!"   
John doesn't hear Coach's response to that, but guilt churns in his gut. Would Coach really be sacked for kicking King of the team? If the guy really was a better candidate for captain than John was, and his father was right... It'd be his fault. His fault that the team was suffering. His fault that Coach lost his job. John closed his eyes, letting his head fall backwards until it thunked lightly against the bleachers. I really am just a total fuck up, aren't I? he thought. The next thought that came to him wasn't entirely out of the blue, nor was it appearing to him for the first time. And it didn't surprise him all that much, either. But this time, he took it a little more seriously than he had before.   
Perhaps I ought to just get out of everyone's hair. Do the world a favour. 

James Moriarty was just heading back to his class room when the raised voices reached him. Pausing, he listened to the argument between the two men. An old rage, one he hadn't felt in years now, reared up in the back of his head. Not for himself, this time, not towards the one who had sneered at him. _Laughed_ at him. But for John. Kind, gentle John, who never deserved a single harsh word against him. James could stop it. He could stop the King boy before he laughed at John. He'd stopped the one who had laughed at him. He could do it again, to protect John from that hurt. James limped his way toward the voices, rounding the corner of a building onto the rugby field. King, both father and son, and the Coach were almost gone from the grass now, away on the far side. His hand twitched at his side. He could stop them, just like... the name was slow in coming to his lips, although it was quick to come to his mind. That surprised him. He'd expected it to be a little more sluggish by now, but apparently some things never fade. It didn't matter that hadn't thought about Carl Powers in a long time. He was never going to forget that name. 

Once John was sure Coach and both Kings were gone, he forced his eyes open. If Coach lost his job, it would be proof. If King replaced him as captain, it would be proof. If he failed his classes, if his friends didn't ask, if his father hit him or his mother kept drinking and doping herself stupid, it would be proof. That he should do it. End it. And he would, then. Once he had just that little bit more proof that he really was as worthless as his father had always told him he was. That all he had ever done in his life had been for nought. He was a failure. John scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded shallowly before he carefully got out from under the bleachers, standing and brushing the grass off his trousers. Not yet. Just.. not yet. With this thought in mind he tossed his bag over his shoulder and rounded the end of the bleachers. Only then did he notice Moriarty standing in the middle of the field, looking straight at the spot he'd stepped into. There was a kind of distance in his expression that made John think he was so lost in thought he couldn't even see him. Then the man blinked and his eyes focused, seeing John. Really seeing him, the way he always had, the way _only_ he ever had. John was walking towards him before he even realised it. James was moving, too, but it couldn't be called walking. He had an obvious limp, favouring one leg quite heavily. Concern bloomed through John's chest, smothering a little of the heavy ache there. His eyes darted down to the injured foot, taking in the way James was moving on it, then back up to his face as they came to a stop opposite each other. Perhaps just a tad too close. James's eyes were on his bruised cheek, and John realised that running his hand over it earlier had been a mistake. He glanced down at his palm, and sure enough, make up was smeared over it. James reached up, and John didn't even think to flinch away from his touch. The older man took John's chin and turned his head just enough to see the cheek full on. Moriarty always handled him like he was made of glass. And he was more than okay with that. He honestly kind of felt like he was today. The pad of James's thumb smoothed the make up carefully over where John had smudged it, his touch feather light.   
"John," he said ever so softly, and for a moment John wondered if he was dreaming again. James spoke as if even John's name was precious, like he cradled it on his tongue as he said it. "Please. Please report him."  
John opened his mouth to argue, turning back to look into James's eyes.   
"You look as though you've broken your foot," was all he ended up saying. "Have you seen a doctor about it?"  
James shook his head. John brought his hand up to rest over Moriarty's where it was still against his jaw.   
"Please do."  
There was a moment of quiet between them as the weight of all the unsaid things settled heavy on their shoulders.   
"Stay after class today?" James asked in a small voice. John nodded.   
"Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are our boys finally sorting out their shit? Is it possible? Stay tuned to find out if Truffle ever gets the chance to write again!
> 
> Also, NaNoWriMo is coming up! And I'm excited! Y'all should do it with me, and if you don't know what it is, totally look it up! It's awesome fun times.


	26. Hour of Darkness

By the time John was making his way to James's class last period, he'd gone over what had happened at lunch and rethought it countless times. Should he have had a go at Moriarty? Should he have turned him down, walked away? He definitely shouldn't have let the man touch him so gently, and not only because they have been out in the middle of everywhere where anyone could have seen them. The thing was... no matter how hard he tried, John just couldn't quite bring himself to be angry with James at the moment. He was too wrung out, too emotionally raw from all the other stuff that was going on to have the capacity for it. He just wanted the comfort James's presence had brought him in the past, some kind of solace in the shit storm of his life. And there was no doubt in his mind that he still loved the man, regardless of anything he had done, said or not said. Because you didn't just stop loving someone. You couldn't. Love wasn't a thing that could end, was it? John walked into the English class, eyes sweeping immediately to Moriarty's desk. The teacher was sitting behind it, hands folded together as he watched his students move to their seats. He turned and his eyes caught John's. The smile that curled the man's lips was so genuine and so honest, despite the setting, that it made John more than a little weak at the knees. Oh, yes. Love didn't end. And his love for James Moriarty certainly hadn't, no matter how angry he'd been at the man. How useless he had realised he was, how unworthy. John still loved Mr M. And there was nothing that was ever going to change that fact. 

Peter and Charlie had sat on either side of him the whole lesson, as they had done all year, and neither one of them had said a word to him. Of course they hadn't. They didn't really care, did they? This was just a little reminder. A little more proof. A little more of a reason. That was fine. John would get out of their way soon enough. Not just yet, though. He had a few things to do first. As they were packing up to leave, though, Charlie's hand came to rest lightly on John's forearm.  
"John? Do you wanna..." she began, the sentence trailing off when John looked up at her, eyes surprised but flat. Resigned. Her own eyes widened a little and she started again. "Are you okay?"  
John thought - John _knew_ \- that she wasn't asking because she really cared. She was just asking because it was habit. Because she felt obliged. Because it was the right thing to do. So he gave her the answer she wanted to hear.  
"I'm fine."  
Charlie didn't look like she believed that for a minute. John forced a smile.  
"Really. Fine." He looked away then, returning to putting his things slowly into his bag. Charlie hesitated, then sighed softly. Relief, John thought.  
"I'll see you tomorrow?"  
John nodded, and Charlie turned and left. If he saw hesitance in her step or heard it in her voice, John was sure it was just his imagination. The class emptied out shortly afterwards, and for a moment John just stared at his hands. Just a little more proof. Just a little more of a nudge. He could accept that. He zipped his bag closed and walked over to Moriarty's desk, where the man had pulled up a chair.  
"Please have a seat."  
As John sat down, James spoke again, quieter. "I'm glad you stayed." 

"Of course" John had said. James had hardly dared to believe it. Of course? He'd thought he was the last person the young man wanted to spend time with, but here he was, staying after class and sitting by his desk. Almost like they used to. Almost like nothing had ever happened. Almost. Because it was abundantly clear that something was wrong. He could see it in the sag of John's shoulders, the way he couldn't quite seem to lift his gaze to meet James's own. It made his heart ache to see someone who had been so strong brought so low. He couldn't allow it to go on any longer - John deserved so much better. The wary look that passed over John's features when he told the younger that he was glad he'd stayed did not surprise him. John had every right to be wary of him. He'd destroyed what trust he might have had in him, scared him away - right into the arms of that rugby playing university kid. And John had loved that very university kid, had he not? He certainly seemed more than a little cut up now that they were no longer together. The other boy had been good for John, no doubt. They stood on a common ground John and James never could have. And yet even as he had that thought James knew he wasn't going to be able to stop trying to win John's heart. No matter who else it may belong to, in Moriarty's mind John was already his. He wanted him to be his fully, completely. And he didn't know if he would ever be able to stop working towards that.  
"Why did you try to hide it this time?" James heard himself asking, before he'd consciously decided on what he was going to say. It wasn't the clearest question, but of course John immediately knew what it was he was asking. The boy studied him silently for a moment.  
"I had to. Had to see someone who couldn't know this morning," John explained.  
"Someone who would have helped you?" James asked, his heart rate starting to pick up for reasons he couldn't explain. John shook his head, his expression mostly resigned.  
"No one can help me, James. If they tried to help it would only make it worse. For mum, if not for me."  
James rejected that statement immediately. He could help. He _would_ help. He would take John away from all of that. He reached out, taking one of John's hands where it rested in the young man's lap. Again, it was like the touch on the field earlier - he did it without thinking, without even realising he was moving. John didn't flinch, but he still wished he'd been more careful about touching him. He didn't need to frighten John any more than he already had.  
"I'm sure there's some way," he began. He had more to say, but John's eyes met with his then and there was a hard, cold certainty in them that stole the words off James's tongue.  
"You've said that before. I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more proof," John replied. Even as he said it he turned his hand slightly, closing it around James's and holding on hard. James tightened his own grip in response, mouth moving before he had a chance to think through his words the way he wanted. John seemed to have stolen that ability from him entirely.  
"I have an idea."  
"And so do I," John countered. James's heart was pounding now, and he knew there was something very wrong with the way John had said that. The guarded look in his eye, the naked certainty in his voice.  
"What's your idea, John?" James asked slowly. He felt almost as if he was in a dream, a sense of dread dawning over him as he realised he couldn't move his limbs or scream in the face of some approaching terror. Not a dream, then. A nightmare. John's eyes were harder than ever as he scrutinised the teacher. The moment before he spoke seemed to stretch on forever.  
"That's not important," John replied finally, and lifted his chin, jaw set. But James knew that whatever it was, it was very, very important.  
"John-" James began. John stood up, still clutching at James's hand as if he'd forgotten about it. James stood up too, standing close and tipping his head just so. They were close enough that he could feel John's breath against his lips, the heat of his body against his chest. He parted his lips, preparing to speak. But before he could John surged forwards, sealing his lips over James's and silencing him with a fierce kiss that knocked all of the breath out of his lungs. James's eyes dropped shut and he kissed back, no doubt too desperately. The kiss stretched on, adrenaline fuelled and kind of glorious, until John abruptly pulled away, dropping James's hand. They studied each other silently, panting softly. James had just began to gather himself to speak when John, again, stopped him.  
"See someone about your foot," he said, tone too gentle to quite be a demand. Then he turned and walked out, swinging his bag onto his shoulder as he went. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click and James stood staring at it for a long time. No one else had ever rendered him speechless the way John could. Eventually he managed to get his thoughts in enough of an order to gather his things and head out to his car. He'd stop by the A and E on the way home. 

John had opted to take the back way home, because it was more secluded and he really didn't think he could handle being around people. Now he stood leaning against the wall in the little alleyway that ran behind his house with his eyes shut, trying to make sense of the thousand thoughts buzzing through his mind. He'd kissed Moriarty. And the man had definitely kissed him back. There was no mistaking that much. But why? And why had Moriarty kissed him that first time, for that matter, what felt like a hundred years ago? He'd never rebuked John when he'd flirted, or told him off when he'd caught him staring at his arse. But then he'd stopped talking to him after that first kiss and pretended as if it had never happened. So what the hell was going on? If he hadn't been interested, why had he continued to lead John on? Couldn't he have just politely turned him down, moved him to another class, even? What sort of an asshole did a thing like that? John kicked listlessly at a stone. Everything just felt so washed out still, all his emotions were tinged grey and dreary. He thought he probably ought to be angry at James's behaviour, but he was having trouble being anything much but blank. The tickling of irritation he felt wasn't enough to lift the dull blanket that covered him. John sighed heavily, pushing himself upright and dusting off his hands. It was his fault anyway. He was the one that had been coming on to his teacher. The one getting his hopes up that he could actually have him. It was his fault that the people he'd considered friends had lost interest in him, too. He was boring. And he'd never let them in, never really told them what was happening in his life. Hell, it was probably his fault his mother was a drunk. Why not? Why would he have escaped that? John began to trudge home, feeling heavy; as though gravity had decided to increase just for him. He deserved everything he got. Provoked his father, didn't help his mother. Drove away his friends. Drove away the one person who had actually shown some sign of genuinely caring about him. John couldn't even feel particularly guilty over Maury any more. All he felt was resigned to the fact it was his fault. Just like everything else. 

James had winced and cringed his way through a physical examination on his foot, been propped up and prodded around as x-rays were taken, and sat in more waiting rooms than was really necessary. Now he sat in a doctors office in a hard plastic chair, waiting as the doctor studied the x-rays. Eventually, the man turned towards him, hands folding together in his lap.  
"Well, Mr Moriarty, I'm afraid that friend of yours was right. You've broken your toe. You said you kicked something, correct?" the doctor asked. James nodded.  
"My sofa. It hurt, but I didn't think it was that bad," he replied. The doctor smiled at him.  
"People are more fragile than we like to make out. It's really very easy to obtain this kind of injury. But don't worry, it looks like yours should be an easy fix. I'll put a splint on it and give you some painkillers. You'll need to keep off it, though. Rest up. You owe that friend a drink, too - if you'd left it too long it could have been much harder to deal with."  
James nodded, letting the man splint his toe and fill in a prescription. "I can't really keep off it entirely, I'm a teacher. Got to get to my classes," he explained as the doctor worked. The doctor looked displeased at that, then thought for a while.  
"You really need to keep off it for a good six weeks to make sure it heals properly," he began. "I can loan you a set of crutches to use when you're at work, but you need to keep off it and keep it elevated as often as you can."  
After a few more formalities, the doctor gave James a set of crutches and had him do a couple of rounds of the exam room to make sure he knew what he was doing.  
"All right. Just take it slow, don't rush and hurt yourself again. Other than that, pick these up from the pharmacy," the doctor handed him the prescription, "rest it, ice it, and elevate it. If those aren't doing it for the pain, come back and see me."  
James agreed and thanked him, tucking the prescription into his pocket before making his way carefully - and somewhat unsteadily - out of the room and towards the pharmacy. Crutches. He'd kicked his sofa, for crying out loud. And now he had a broken toe and had to be on _crutches_. Christ. He thought about what the doctor had said about owing his friend a drink. The image of taking John out to a pub made him smile. He needed to fix what had gone wrong between them. And soon. 

John sat at his desk, homework finished in front of him. He'd done it on auto pilot, and now had almost no memory of what he'd written. But he wasn't thinking about it too hard, anyway. When he'd come inside his father had been in the living room on the phone, and a burst of pure hatred had run through John's chest at just the sound of his voice. The only true colour in the grey, and it was black rage. Now he sat with his hands flat on his desk, wondering if it was a sin for someone with a father like his to disobey the commandment 'honour thy father'. Because not only did John not honour him, not listen to him or obey him, he was pretty damn sure that he hated his father. And not in the kiddie sense of hating the boy who pushed you on the playground and stole your lunch. Truly hated him. With every bone in his body, hated him, wanted him to suffer, wanted him dead. The thought popped into John's head quite suddenly and he went very still, turning it over in his mind. The cold calculation with which he considered this concept would have alarmed him if he'd been capable of feeling anything except this abject hatred. His father, dead. It would certainly mean a lot of his issues were dealt with, wouldn't it? But then there was his mother. She wouldn't cope. John was still young enough to be taken from her, and then what would she do? Cold fear seeped into John's stomach. He would be alone. No father, no mother, no friends. No Maury. Completely alone. John's hands curled into fists and he shook his head, fighting away unexpected tears.  
"I don't want to be alone," he whispered honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Let it Be - The Beatles
> 
> You wanted more feelings, right? Right???
> 
> Also cannot the edit, will fix any glaring errors later.


	27. Won't Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got WAY WAY WAY out of hand. I don't even know what happened for the last like three chapters. There's this whole plot line that I didn't want. I'M SORRY.
> 
> Also apologies for how long it took me to edit that last chapter. So busy right now.

Much later, when he was lying in bed almost asleep, - sleep was so hard for him to catch tonight, and he hated being denied its escape - John's mind wandered back to sin. Sin was a concept invented by religion, was it not? The idea of disobeying the teachings of God. Atheists couldn't sin because they didn't believe in any god that they were disobeying. Instead when they did wrong it was was simply wrong, not against a higher power's teachings. And was it wrong in that sense for John to hate his father? It didn't seem like it would be. It didn't seem like he was wrong to do so if there was no god who taught it was wrong. John pondered this, mind running it over and over. His God, the Christian God, was supposed to be a God of love. Of compassion. He had been taught all his life that God wanted the best for him and all the rest of his children. But then He allowed children like John to suffer under parents like his father. He allowed people to starve to death in some countries while others let food go to waste. It was a tired argument, but it had never felt more sensible to him. John really saw the reasoning now; that if indeed there was a God, as he had never in his life truly not believed, He could not be the caring, loving God of the New Testament. Instead He must be the wrathful God of the Old Testament. The one who sat back and watched as His children suffered, starved, were abused and murdered and raped. The one who ordered such things as punishments, demanded sacrifices in his name. It was only belief that kept a god alive, was it not? The pagan gods the Greeks had worshipped had all but died as belief in them had died, had they not? If it was belief that kept a god alive, and the God he had once worshipped and now only spoke to, so much more rarely now than he had as a child, was in fact a decorated mask held in place by Christians over the face of the much crueler one they had once known.... John wasn't sure he really wanted to believe in that kind of a god any more. Wasn't sure if a God like that deserved to be believed in. Deserved to be kept alive.   
  
On Monday morning John was eating breakfast in the kitchen, completely silent. He'd barely slept, and his breakfast constituted almost all that was left in the cupboards. His mother hadn't done the groceries since his father had returned, and John was not permitted to do them himself. His parents were having a howling fight down the hall in their room. Mostly his father was yelling and his mother was trying to talk him down, but occasionally she'd scream just as loudly. Eventually he burst into the kitchen and blew past John on his way to the spot over the oven where he kept his cigarettes. "Fucking useless bitch," he spat, shooting a hard glare at John as he shoved a cancer stick between his teeth. John finished tidying his dishes, expressionless.   
"And you're no better either, boy. You could do something useful with your life, get a job, mow the fucking lawn once in a while," he snarled around the cigarette. He'd tried several times now to light a match, and at last succeeded with an especially vicious strike. John turned away from him without even acknowledging his words, heading towards the front door. His father inhaled deeply, still glaring.   
"I told your mother she should have gotten rid of you when she could. Stupid slag," he muttered. John looked up at the muted sobbing coming from behind his parents bedroom door. He'd learnt long ago not to attempt to comfort his mother after his parents had fought if his father was still in the house. So instead he left for school, trying to clear the sound of his fathers voice from his ears. And the other voice, too, the one telling him his father was right about all of it.   
  
James carefully edged his way around a student that had stopped in the middle of the hall, looking down at something in her hands. As he passed, he realised she wasn't looking at something in her hands at all, but rather her wrists. She was tugging at her sleeves, trying to pull them down. Just before the second sleeve covered the girl's left wrist and half of her hand with it, James spotted the ring of red-purple bruising in the shape of finger prints there. Anger flared up in his gut and he changed course. Instead of going to his own classroom he went to Harrison Kenyth's, one of the school's drama teachers. He knew the man also taught John, had done for years. Therefore, he had to have seen the marks of abuse on not only John, but also the run of other children that came through the school all the time bearing them. James had seen countless signs in his time here, and he handed even been working at this school a year yet. All of the teachers must have seen something, surely. They couldn't all be _that_ blind. Kenyth looked up when James entered the room, his bird-like face carrying its usual expression of slightly confused and mildly irritated.   
"James? What have you done to yourself? Sorry, did we have an appointment?" he asked, turning over his hand to look at the watch he had failed to put on that morning. Moriarty shook his head.   
"No, but I do have a question," he replied, ignoring the comment about the crutches. "Why is it that not a single one of you has done anything about your students being abused? This country has laws about domestic violence just the same as any other civilized place."   
Kenyth met his gaze for an instant, and the moment their eyes connected Harrison's filled with a surprised terror. It wasn't a look that was entirely uncommon for the man. James felt a vicious pleasure at the fact he scared him. Finally, Harrison shook his head slightly, not quite looking at him.   
"You must know the area by now, James. At least a little," he began, as though it was some kind of explanation. "It's... these children come from... from under privileged homes."  
James made very ungraceful noise that coming from any one else might have been considered a snort. Kenyth flinched, but hesitantly continued.   
"These... less wealthy folks, they have a tendency to... punish their children over zealously. It's not as if we can change the ways of the whole town."   
Moriarty stared at him for several long moments. So long that the other man actually glanced up at him warily.   
"You seriously think that is an okay reason to leave child abuse unchecked?" James demanded.   
"There's nothing we can do."  
Red spots flashed in James's vision as the fire of anger in his gut flared so brightly sparks exploded behind his eyes. His hand twitched in a desperate effort to strike Harrison that he only just contained.   
"That is the most pathetic excuse I've heard in my entire life," he spat, his words sharp edged and all but flung at the other teacher. Kenyth just shrugged. James turned on his heel and left before he had a chance to do something that might lose him his job.   
  
As John walked, he passed an open window with music pouring out of it. On the other side of the window a young woman was laughing, dancing with a man in glasses. John turned his eyes away almost as soon as he saw them. He felt like he was somehow breaching their privacy by watching them. And, at the same time he felt a deep ache right in the center of his chest for the fact he'd never seen his mother look at his father the way that woman looked at that man. The music, though, he couldn't turn away from. The words played in his ears even once he'd passed the house. 

  
 _Do you need anybody?  
_ _I need somebody to love.  
_ _Could it be anybody?_

 

John gave the pavement a bitter smile and shook his head slightly. No, it couldn't be anybody. It had to be someone in particular. Someone he wanted to dance to The Beatles with in the morning. Someone who he would look at like he'd put the sun in the sky. Someone with dark hair and powerful eyes. Eyes that held fire, that froze you in place, that lifted you up above the clouds. Not just anybody would do. It had to be him. John knew that much for certain. 

Once he was safely back in his classroom, Moriarty forced himself to get to his chair and sit down before letting himself get angry. As soon as he did one of his crutches was thrown halfway across the room, clattering into a chair and knocking it over. His hand clenched so tightly around the other crutch that it ached. This ache was echoed in his jaw from how hard it was set, holding back a string of curses he longed to spill into the laps of all the people here who just sat by and did nothing. How could they? How could they let John be treated like that right under there noses and never once step in to try and help him? James didn't catch himself until a while after that thought and quickly corrected himself. How could they let any one, let alone any child, be the victim of abuse? He reminded himself very firmly that he was worried about the others, too. That he wasn't only so enraged because John was receiving this treatment. And he outright ignored the fact that in his heart of hearts he wasn't so sure that was entirely true. 

"John?"  
Something in Chris's tone told John it wasn't the first time the other boy had said his name. He looked up, blinking himself back into reality.   
"Sorry. Yeah?" he replied.   
"Are you going to sit with us today?" Chris asked, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips. John realised it was a really long time since the two of them had spoken.   
"Might do. How are you, Chris?"   
Chris seemed taken aback by the question, blinking at him owlishly.   
"Um. I'm all right?" he replied uncertainly. John nodded.   
"Good. That's good," he said, turning back to his page as Kenyth droned on. When the lesson ended Chris asked again, and this time John agreed and went with him. It occurred to him as they walked that he'd never apologised for using Chris the way he had when he was still working himself out all those years ago. And that maybe he ought to. Before he got the chance to order any such apology in his head they had reached their destination and Charlie had all but pounced on John, pulling him down into a seat beside her own and starting up a slew of chatter about the things they used to talk about. Before John's insides had been all washed out and left raw. Before he'd realised that none of them never really meant any of it. Not even Charlie. Eventually everyone had separated into their own conversations, and no one was listening to them.   
"You know that if you ever want to talk about anything I'm right here, don't you?" Charlie said quietly. She'd been half way through some other completely different comment when she'd interrupted herself with that. John smiled at her, pushing away the hurt he felt at the fact he still considered her his closest friend, even though he now knew he was no such thing to her.   
"I know."  
"Do you want to hang out tonight? See a movie, get some ice cream?" she asked. Knowing such an outing would be hollow took the thrill it used to hold out of it, and John shook his head.   
"I've got something on, sorry."  
Charlie nibbled at her lower lip for a moment, eyes concerned before she shrugged. "Okay. If you're sure."  
"I'm sure."  
One day I won't get this feeling, John thought to himself. Won't get this ache of loss in my chest every time I think of her, won't feel the raw edges of every memory digging into the walls of my throat. Bitter reminders now of what I used to think I would always have. I'll close my heart off, I'll remake myself out of steel. Then it won't hurt when I remember her laugh and know she didn't mean a single one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Kenyth bears thinly veiled resemblance to a teacher I had in high school who I didn't much like.  
> Don't worry guys, things are going to get better for our boys. Eventually.
> 
> Oh, and out of curiosity, would anyone be interested in having the link to the playlist I listen to while I'm writing this?


	28. But I Won't Fight You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making up for the last chapter being a bit short with this one being a bit long. Love me?
> 
> Chapter Title from Afraid by The Neighbourhood, which is pretty similar in tone to these few chapters.

Their Biology teacher didn't show up for class that day, and about twenty minutes into the period her students realised that she wasn't coming. It was like this understanding hit them all at once, because the classroom simply exploded into noise, everyone talking and laughing and moving chairs and putting away books at the same time. John sat quietly at his desk, apart from the rest of them - the desks were all separated in this class, their teacher had some theory that they learnt better this way - and looked down at his Biology text book. If she was running late or wasn't here today, why hadn't their teacher sent a replacement? Or at least a messenger telling them what to do while they waited for her? She was an organised woman and never failed to do such things. As John flicked to the section of the text book they were working on at the moment, he figured it could easily be a fluke, of course. People made mistakes. Still, it seemed odd to him. He let the thought linger in the corner of his mind as he set to work studying, tuning out the incessant chatter from all around him. 

John's Biology teacher was indeed at work that day, and she had come there with every intention of attending her fifth period class for final year students. However, nearing the end of the lunch break she'd run into James Moriarty in the hallway. Quite literally - she'd been rushing out of a door and bowled right into the poor man, knocking his crutches out from under him and sending him stumbling into the wall. She'd been awfully apologetic, and Moriarty had waved her off, telling her it wasn't her fault. Everything had been perfectly cordial until Moriarty had regained his footing and looked her in the face - spotting for the first time what this morning had been slight, but by now must have bloomed into a real corker of a black eye. Like many of her students, John's Biology teacher was a seasoned professional when it came to wearing a mask, and the slightly embarrassed, apologetic look she wore covered the twinge of fear she felt when Moriarty saw her bruised face. There was a hard, burning knowledge in his eyes that made her want to hide her face and turn away before he could ask any questions. Instead she pulled her smile a little wider and glanced down at the reseated crutches.   
"All sorted?" she asked. Moriarty didn't answer her. Instead he asked,   
"What happened to your eye?" The thin smile he wore hardly disguised the rage beneath it. Now it was her turn to wave him off, and she did so with a kind of practiced ease that no one had noticed was forced before. But Moriarty did.   
"Oh, it's nothing. I was throwing a ball with my son, I'm not much for catching." No need to mention that we've been living with my mother since his father left. No need to mention she still treats me as if I am a child. That she doesn't care if he is in the room when she does it.   
There wasn't a single flaw in her act. Not even the slightest slip of the mask. So when the disbelief and something barely contained and aflame didn't melt away from Moriarty's face, she began to panic a little. 

"Are you busy?" James asked. It was clearly the last thing the woman - he couldn't remember her name, she hadn't seemed important to remember - had expected to hear. Before she had a chance to reply he added, "Come to my classroom for a bit, I wish to discuss something with you." And though the shielded look in her eyes never faltered, James picked up on the jump in heart rate, the way she was suddenly looking for an escape route. "It will only take a moment," he assured her, already continuing on his way to his classroom, crutches clacking on the lino floor and echoing in the hallway. He knew she would follow him. Once she was comfortably seated and behind the closed door in Moriarty's classroom, it was clear that she was doing anything she could to avoid eye contact. James wasn't surprised - whoever her abuser was, she considered them to be in a position of authority over her, and she held him in the same esteem. Why, he wasn't sure. But it made her nervous to be alone with him. It wasn't enough to calm the rage in him, though, and so he spoke all together too bluntly.   
"What is it with people in this town and not reporting abuse?" he demanded. To her credit, the Biology teacher didn't flinch.   
"The students won't do it, which in some cases is understandable. Children are often reliant upon those that hurt them for their livelihoods, though I wouldn't go so far as to say those people keep them safe," James went on. "You teachers, though. You see them walk by you every day with their bruises and their eyes turned away and you know full well what it is that they are hiding and you do nothing!" The woman had raised her eyes now, watching him rant with a hard look in her eyes. She was strong, and he admired that. But that did not mean she wasn't doing the wrong thing.   
"And then there's you."  
Still, no response from the woman but her hard, guarded look. She was ready for a fight, ready to defend, he could see it in every inch of her.   
"You go through it yourself, even though you are an adult. You have a job and, you said, a son. He relies on you to keep him safe and to love him, and instead you allow yourself to be hurt. How could you?" Moriarty was sitting in his chair, crutches propped against the wall, and his fingers were gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles had gone white. The woman waited for several long minutes, letting the silence drag out.   
"Children are not the only ones who are reliant upon their abusers, Mr Moriarty," she said finally, her chin held proudly high. "My son's father walked out on us and took everything we had. I moved back in with my mother because it was all I could do to keep my son fed and clothed." There was heat in her eyes, a curl to her lip. "She never quite learned that her own children grew up, but I have no where else to go. She never touches him, but if she ever even thinks about it, we will be out of there. I can assure you, sir, that I will do absolutely anything to protect my son. Including suffer."  
James's jaw was set hard, his mouth a thin, pale line. He expected her to get up and leave, to storm out. Instead she sat, just as silent, just as still as he, and held his gaze. Stared him down until the aggressive eye contact bullied a little of his anger to a heel. And then they began to talk properly. 

John was the first to arrive at Moriarty's classroom for his final class of the day, having left his non-event of a Biology lesson before the bell. He hesitated outside the door, surprised to hear an oddly familiar peal of woman's laughter skitter out through the gap under it. John frowned as a burst of jealously lit his chest. He was jealous because James was making a woman laugh? That was ridiculous. He pushed it aside and opened the classroom door, pausing again when he saw who the woman in question was and realised why her laugh sounded familiar. Both teachers, expressions relaxed and smiling, looked towards him when the door opened. His Biology teacher immediately dropped her smile, looking down at her watch and gasping.   
"Shit! Oh, pardon my french, ah, I had a class," she said hurriedly, her cheeks flushing. John's eyes jumped from her to James, expecting him to be smiling at the woman as she rushed to stand, admiring the colour in her cheeks, the way her hair fell across her face. He had every right to, and she wasn't unattractive, John supposed. But instead James was looking at him. The look in his eyes was somewhere between surprised and pleased, and John didn't understand at all. Moriarty had successfully distracted the other teacher from her class for almost the entire hour, and yet know he had more interest in John than her? What had they been doing? That jealously reared its ugly head once more and John swallowed it down, telling himself they weren't doing any of the things that flashed through his mind.   
"Gosh, John I'm so sorry I missed your class, are the rest of them still there? I ought to go and apologise," his Biology teacher was babbling, grabbing her things and heading for the door.   
"They should be," John replied. She nodded, looking over her shoulder at Moriarty just before she ducked out of the door.   
"I'll see you later, James. And thank you," she added with another honest smile. Then she was gone. John watched the door swing closed before raising an eyebrow in James's direction. The English teacher gave him an almost cheeky grin. "You're early."  
"You kept my last period teacher in here all lesson," John returned, eyeing him curiously. "What were you talking about?"  
James seemed to consider for a moment. "I'm afraid that's something I can't share with you, John. How..." he hesitated, his expression turning more serious. "How are you?"  
John's smile was humourless as he walked past Moriarty to his own place. "I see you saw someone about your foot."  
James knew a change in subject when he saw one, but he chose not to pursue it. "Yes. It turns out I've broken my toe. The doctor said I owe you a drink," he added, watching John's face carefully for reaction. The only change was the slightest widening of the boy's eyes.   
"Pity I'm under age," John reminded him, sitting down. James had, in fact, entirely forgotten that.   
"I'll have to take a rain check then," he replied with a hopeful smile. John blinked at him, thinking to himself, don't hold out too much hope on that one. Either he's messing with you again, or you're not going to be around long enough anyway. None the less, if he's not, and I am...   
"I guess you will," John agreed, just as the door swung inwards and other students began to arrive for class.   
"Can we continue this conversation after class?"  
John shook his head. "Rugby," he explained. He told himself he was imagining the flash of disappointment he thought he saw in Moriarty's face. 

John threw himself into yet another tackle, and James forcibly held back a cringe. He could see just as clearly as John's Coach - who had told him twice already to pull back, they didn't need him breaking his bloody neck in the first game of the season - that he was pushing himself too hard. Coach thought it was just because John was dedicated to winning the game, which James supposed he was. But Moriarty knew there was more to it than that. He could see from the fiercely concentrated look in John's eyes every time they flashed in his direction that the boy was using the physical exertion of the game, possibly even the pain he was causing his body as a distraction from whatever heavy thought was weighing on his mind. James had spent enough of his life trying to distract himself from his own thoughts that it came naturally to recognise it in another. And the slump in John's shoulders lately had shown him there was something he needed distracting from. It he could only convince John to let him in and tell him what was wrong, James was convinced he'd be able to fix it. He'd certainly do everything in his power to. The thought had been hanging around him since he'd overheard a lyric a gust of wind had snatched from the radio one of the away team supporters had on the bleachers. _I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you._ The woman he'd spoken to earlier had been adamant that when it came to looking after her son, she was capable of absolutely anything. And that resonated with Moriarty far deeper than he would have admitted to her. He couldn't do everything, but he would if John wanted him to. He'd find a way. A sharp, cut off cry of pain sounded from the field and James's eyes darted across to it, finding John dropping to his knees beside a downed team mate. He was speaking rapidly to him, searching out the injury as the other boy screwed his eyes closed and gasped for breath. The opposing team were looking from one to another, trying to work out whose fault it was that the kid was injured. Slowly, John coaxed the boy upright, letting him lean heavily against his side as he kept his injured leg tucked up off the ground. John guided the limping boy to the nearest sideline - which just so happened to be right where James was sitting. The Coach was jogging over with the school nurse in tow, but John and his injured team mate reached Moriarty first.   
"Have you had J- Mr M for any classes?" John was asking as he gently set down the other on the lowest bleacher. The kid shook his head. "Well, you can rely on him, okay?" The kid nodded, looking sideways at James with pain clear in his eyes. James tried on a reassuring smile, glancing at John. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, but the trust in John's eyes kept him from saying that out loud. The nurse reached them then, fussing over the injured boy.   
"Go back to your game," James said quietly to John. "He'll be fine, and your coach looks like he's about to combust."  
John flashed him a smile, and it was the first genuine one he'd seen on his lips in so long James couldn't help but return it. Then John was speaking fast to the Coach, both of them jogging back out to the field.   
"What do you teach?" the injured boy asked in a strained tone. Moriarty dragged his gaze away from John and down to the kid he'd entrusted the teacher to look out for.   
"English. What are you looking at doing after school?"  
The distraction was eagerly taken, and the nurse gave James a grateful look as she tended to the already swelling knee. 

James frowned to himself, feeling as though he'd just woken from a dream. He was sitting in the waiting room of the A and E - again - with his crutches propped up at his side. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up being the one to do it, but it had been determined that John's injured team mate - kids name was Schindler, and James couldn't decide if that was unfortunate or not - needed proper medical care. The nurse had needed to stay at the game in case there were any other injuries, and the kid's parents hadn't been at the game, so Schindler had clung to the teacher that had comforted him up to that point. He was in getting x-rays now, poor sod, and James was here, waiting for the kid's parents. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, surprised to see a message from John.   
[Coach said you took Schindler to the A+E. Is he okay?]  
John's concern for others never failed to make James smile, and he replied with one on his face.   
[He's getting xrays now. They're worried it might be muscle damage, but he should recover. They've given him some painkillers. How did the rest of the game go?]  
[We won. Are his parents there yet?]  
[Still waiting for them. What do they do?]  
[Big shots in the city, I think. His mum will be in a suit, short red hair. Got to change, let me know when they get there?]  
[Of course.]  
James went back to waiting, relaxing a little now that he knew what he was looking for. Eventually he saw a tall woman in a skirt suit clack her way into the waiting room, looking around. Her hair was about as red as hair could get naturally, cropped into a straight bob. James picked up his crutches and got carefully to his feet, making his way over.   
"Mrs Schindler?"  
"Yes," she replied, turning around with a worried brow and a relieved smile.  
"I'm James Moriarty, I work at your son's school. I brought him here."  
"Thank you, Mr Moriarty. Thank you so much. His father and I work late, it's very difficult for us to get to his games. Do you know where he is?" she asked. She was talking fast, and James was more than a little relieved to find a parent of a child at that school who actually gave a shit about their kid.   
"He's getting x-rays right now, although the doctors are fairly sure it's not bone damage. Come with me, I'll show you where you can wait," he said, turning and making his way down a hall. She followed close on his heels, asking him a slew of questions. When she'd exhausted all the information she could get about her son, she looked down at James's foot.   
"And what have you done to yourself?"   
"Broken toe," James replied with a smile, stopping outside a closed door and pushing it inwards. He held it open for Schindler's mother. "I hope he's all right, Mrs Schindler. The nurses said you could wait through here, there should be someone you can talk to."  
She nodded. "Thank you again, Mr Moriarty. Get well soon," he added, and she seemed genuine. Funny how people could like a stranger if they did one nice thing for them.   
"You're most welcome. Goodbye."  
She went through the door, heels clacking away on the mottled linoleum flooring. James paused there to send John a text before starting his weary journey back to his car.   
[Schindler's mother is here. She's worried.]  
The delay before John's response was long enough for James to have slumped, relieved, into the driver's seat of his car and set his crutches beside him.   
[She would be. Were you okay getting him inside?]  
[Had to get a nurse to help, but they sorted him out. It's good of you to be so concerned, John.]  
[What else would I have done?]  
James smiled at that. John was so... good. He'd been dragged through the dirt by his parents all his life and yet still he didn't know how to be anything but selfless and kind. It was that beautiful, innocent goodness in John that James wanted to both protect and to destroy. To tear apart and preserve all at once. And even he didn't quite understand that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get all of the points if you know which literary teacher John's Biology teacher is based upon and named after.   
> Also apparently we needed more Jim POV...?


	29. Offer Your Throat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened all together too late and then four chapters too early?
> 
> By the way I LOVE YOU ALL I'm having a really good day today have another chapter.  
> And one positive response is enough for me, so here is the link to my Wolf playlist. I don't know if you'll be able to see when I update or not? I add songs as I go along.

[((PLAYLIST HERE))](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLGMXndSDu9FDff6O4EYhKx_bvpy16mlYS)

 

John was lying in the middle of a king sized bed, sprawled comfortably against the pillows and dressed in nothing but his rugby shorts. He stretched, his back arching in a way that somehow caught all of the early afternoon light that was streaming into the room, illuminating every swell of muscle and curve of bone where they pressed against his skin. James, standing at the end of the bed with a relaxed smile on his face, simply admired him for a long moment. There was nothing in the world that could truly compare to a sight like this, and that thought was only reinforced when John smiled, honest and happy, utterly content.  
"Well come on," he urged playfully, propping himself up on his elbows and cocking his head at James. "You're not just going to stand there all day, are you?"  
James chuckled, shaking his head and crawling onto the bed. "As if I could stay away from you," he replied. John laughed, and James reached out to cup his cheek in one hand.

James didn't even bother his usual grunt of irritation when the haze in his brain cleared. He always woke up just before he actually got to touch John in those dreams. And that fact was beginning to drive him just a little mad. If he could just touch, just a little, maybe kiss... but no, never. John was always just out of his reach, like he was in the waking world. None the less, just like every time before, James couldn't help a hopeful peek to his side. No. He was alone still, of course. John was still just beyond his grasp, as ever he had been. James hesitated over that thought, though. Because there had been that one moment, John reaching for him and dragging him in for a kiss that tasted of copper and was mostly desperation. John pulling him in. John wanting him. He'd been within James's reach then, and he'd taken advantage of every second that he could. Because that was after he'd lost hope that John would ever really be his as he'd fancied he would. That was after everything fell apart, and John had, James had assumed, loved that other... In the dull grey light of the early morning, James wondered if perhaps John had never really loved the rugby player. If it was remotely possible he could actually have been Moriarty's all that time. James practically sprang out of bed, on his feet and heading towards the bathroom in seconds. Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps he could really have John after all. Properly, as he had wanted him all along.

John had wanted to sneak out of the house early that morning, hoping to get some money out of his father's 'hiding spots' and head out to the store before school. He'd stopped counting how many nights they'd gone without dinner now, and the cupboards were all but bare. But his father was already up when he got downstairs - or, it seemed more likely, still awake - sitting at the kitchen table and smoking a cigarette in the near dark of pre dawn.  
"Go back to bed," the man ordered, his words releasing a cloud of smoke that hovered in front of his face a moment before fading out. "You're staying home today."  
"No, I'm not," John replied firmly, keeping a safe distance from his father. "I have school."  
"You're not going," his father informed him matter of factly. "You're always at school. It's just me and your mother here all day. You're going to stay home and we're going to be a family for once."  
John snorted derisively, already backing towards the stairs. "You could go to work, you know. So that we can buy food," he replied.  
"There's no we about it," his father replied, and John was surprised at how calm he was staying. He got like this when he was expecting no resistance. That everyone around him would take his word as law. "Your mother does the shopping because it's a woman's job. And I swear to God Almighty, John, if you dare try and pull any of that shit you did while I was away again, I'll break your fucking neck. Now go back to bed."  
John didn't reply, biting back the sharp comment he wanted to make in response to that. He turned and went back upstairs, packing his bag for school. He ignored the beginnings of real hunger stirring in his gut and swung his bag securely on to both shoulders. He was going to have to run down the stairs to get out, and he'd be best to do it now, early, while his father was still vacant and slow. John let out a long breath and nodded to himself, pulling his bedroom door open silently. He crept to the stairs and down the few that weren't visible from where his father was sitting, then stopped and listened. Nothing, just the languid huff of breath as his father blew out a lungful of smoke. John tried to make his way down the rest of the stairs undetected, but of course one creaked under his foot and his father turned. So John ran instead, full speed down the stairs and yanking the lock on the door, pulling it open and then slamming it shut behind him as he fled down the street, the sound of his father's chair clattering to the kitchen floor still ringing in his ears as he vaulted a neighbours fence and tore across their lawn, over the far fence into a little alleyway between two properties. He crouched there, below the line of the fence, and listened. No pounding footsteps. After a while he heard a shout, but it was far enough away for him to relax. His father hadn't seen which way he'd gone. He stayed there a while longer while his breathing slowed and his heart beat evened out, then straightened up and looked around. All clear, except for a few early morning commuters in their cars. John let out a sigh and shook his head, walking out of the alley and turning down the road that would lead him the long way to school. If his father was feeling particularly persistent, there was still a chance he'd run into him if he took his usual route. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, John wondered if the man was right about John's plans for his future. That he'd just end up getting some shit job around here, become like any of the other working Joe slobs he'd grown up determined not to be. Perhaps he really wouldn't get into med school. And if he couldn't get into medicine, then how in the hell was he going to be able to get out of this place? How would achieve the things he'd wanted so badly his whole life? If he could never have it, what was the point in continuing to work for it? Hope. Hope was the point. Before John got the chance to ponder if he even had any hope any more, a car slowed down beside him. He turned, the familiar face behind the wheel startling him out of his thoughts.  
"You're out early. Would you like a lift?" James asked, leaning across the passenger seat so he could look up at John. John considered this for a moment, taking a deep breath. The smell of Moriarty's car came to him through the rolled down window, expensive leather and the man's soap and after-shave, or cologne. It was such a welcoming smell that the decision was all but made for him.  
"Please," he replied, pulling open the door and stepping in. James smiled, settling back into his seat.  
"So why are you out and about so early?"  
John considered fabricating some story about having study to do, but before he'd quite decided he found himself replying honestly.  
"I wanted to do the shopping before my father woke up. As it turns out he hadn't slept last night. So I couldn't avoid him."  
James's expression turned stormy for a moment, then cleared again. "Are you okay?" he asked, glancing at John. John gave him a wry smile, eyes forward.  
"You really need to stop asking me that, James. You're going to end up getting an answer you don't like," he replied. There was a bitterness to his tone that he hadn't expected.  
"I'm not asking it to get an answer I like. I'm asking it to get the truth," James replied without pause. John studied him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment, then let his head fall back against the head rest of the seat.  
"No," he said quietly. There was a long pause. James waited. "No, I'm not okay."  
Without looking, James reached over and covered John's hand with his own. John let his eyes drop closed, pressing his fingers up between James's. He wasn't okay, not really. But like this he felt a little bit closer to it.

James had pulled into a parking lot a while away from school, in case someone else should be coming in early and chance seeing them. They sat there, silent with their hands knitted together, for a long time. John was trying to ignore the thoughts racing through his head, but more than a few times he had to wonder at James's behaviour. Why was he doing this if all he'd wanted was a little entertainment from messing with him? And if he genuinely had cared about John being injured, it surely couldn't have extended to a romantic level. John was only seventeen. He was still a kid. And it wasn't like he had any real life experience to make them anything close to equals. John let out a breath, and James sucked one in. Steeling himself.  
"John?" he asked softly. John swallowed, and the teacher's eyes tracked the bob of his Adam's apple in his throat.  
"Yeah?" John asked, his eyes still closed and his head still tipped back.  
"I'm sorry."  
There was a pause. Then John cracked open one eye, peering at James curiously.  
"Sorry? What for?"  
Confusion rippled across James's forehead.  
"For what I did. Lashing out that time. Scaring you off."  
Both of John's eyes popped open then, his full attention squaring on James. The teacher hurried to continue before he lost the opportunity.  
"The last thing I wanted to do was freak you out, especially when it meant you drawing away from me like that."  
John's eyebrows pushed up towards his hairline. James's pulled down.  
"What?"  
"You think you scared me off by getting angry once?" John asked, his tone almost awed.  
"Did I not?" James asked, truly bemused now. John's lips curled into a smile and with his free hand he covered James's where it meshed with his own.  
"No. God, no. It - I backed off because I thought.... well, after you kissed me you pretended like it didn't happen. I thought you didn't -" John cut off before he made a fool of himself. James's lips parted as he processed this.  
"Didn't what, John?"  
John hesitated, eyes flicking away and down to Moriarty's lap before he replied.  
"Care."  
James's hand tightened around John's. His other hand came up to John's chin and tilted his head up so he could meet his eyes.  
"How could you ever think that?"  
"It was pretty easy, actually," John retorted, trying to fight back the fog that was trying to overtake his mind at the way James was looking at him. "You didn't give me a chance to do anything, to respond or kiss back or anything. What else was I supposed to think?"  
Now that John put it that way, Moriarty had to admit he'd messed up there. "So when you kissed me the other day..."  
"That was me getting my own back, yeah," John replied. God, his heart was pounding. Could James not hear that?  
"So you actually.... want...?"  
John rolled his eyes and half glared at him.  
"Shut the fuck up and kiss me already, would you?"  
Jim chuckled, a knot of tension releasing in the pit of his stomach. "Absolutely," he replied, leaning over the centre console and slanting his lips across John's. One of John's hands disappeared from on top of Moriarty's in favour of pushing into the hair on the back of the man's head and holding him firmly in place. John wasn't about to give up the opportunity this time, especially not now that they were on the same page. Well. Sort of. Abruptly he broke away, grip still firm as he met James's eyes.  
"You know where I stand. But what about you? What do you want, James?" he demanded.  
"You. Of course. Always you," James replied, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. John looked hard at him for a long moment. Finally he relaxed, letting his forehead butt up against James's.  
"I bet you say that to all the boys," he joked, a slightly jittery smile playing over his mouth. James stroked his thumb along John's lower lip, smiling slightly.  
"On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?"  
John's eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment James thought the reference had been ill placed and John didn't get it. But then the boy replied evenly,  
"Well, you took the words right out of my mouth." He tilted his chin up, a clear invitation, and James took it, pressing their lips together once more.

Stepping out of James's car was like stepping out of a dream. John had to act as if none of that had just happened, as if he hadn't just been snogged senseless by the guy he'd been hopelessly in love with for months now. And then there was the fact that as soon as the warm, private cocoon of the car was left behind, everything else that had been bothering him came rushing back on a gust of wind. James looked across at him, moving to his side as they began to walk into school. "Kia Kaha, John," he said, making John frown and turn to him. It sounded like nonsense. "I've done some travelling. It means Stand Strong. I told you there was a way, and I promise you there is. Whatever is bothering you, I'll help."  
John pulled his slumped shoulders up and back, standing a little taller. Assume the position. Equip the mask.  
"I don't know if you can," he replied as they reached the school doors. "But I appreciate it."  
James held the door open until John had stepped through it, then followed him inside. "Well I'm damn well going to try," he swore quietly. "I'll see you later," he added, letting his fingers brush against John's as though by accident before he turned down a hallway towards his classroom. John kept walking forwards, skin tingling from the contact. He'd go and sit with the others, he decided. See what happened. See if he could put some kind of logic to what his morning had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did the thing. And I will continue to do the thing. So, so much of the thing. 
> 
> Out of curiosity, where are y'all from?


	30. Well the Truth is... Actually...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I'm so busy why did I get a job why. Also it's NaNoWriMo and I barely have enough time to write this let alone a 50,000 word novel why do I do these things to myself. 
> 
> Chapter title is from one of my favourite movies of all time!

"Who are you?" James asked, his usual eloquence giving way defensive surprise. He was standing in the doorway to his classroom with one hand still holding the door open, and while he was pretty certain absolutely nothing could hurt his good mood, the stranger sitting in his desk chair was enough to wipe the smile from his lips. There was no emotion in this stranger's face and it made her completely unreadable. She was reclined in James' chair, looking perfectly at home with her heeled leather boots kicked up on his desk. Her eyes were sharp, a chilling blue that followed James's every move. He was reminded just a little too strongly of himself and it put him very off balance. He'd never been in the presence of another person that could command a room like she did, without so much as a word. Even as he was assessing her as a potential threat, James found himself studying the well tailored suit she was dressed in, noting the expensive fabric and the uncommon style. Her hair was cut savagely short, shorter than his own, and what was left was dyed a deep black-purple that shifted in the light. Her completely blank expression didn't change at all as she replied,   
"Someone you've been looking to meet."

"John! Am I right or am I right?" Pete asked, cutting across what was clearly Mike's rebuttal to whatever the two of them were arguing about. John looked between the two of them, having absolutely no idea what was going on.   
"Oh please, like he's going to side with you," Mike snorted. John instinctively glance over at Charlie, who shook her head minutely. Sitting down between Sally and Ray, John was consciously directing his thoughts away from the way they hadn't cared when he wasn't there.Of course they hadn't, why would they have?   
"Knowing you guys, you're probably both wrong," he replied. Ray snorted out a laugh and clapped a hand down on John's shoulder as Pete and Mike burst into squabbling again.   
"Missed you, man," he said off-handedly, shooting John a grin. He held out the foil bag he was holding. "Crisp?"  
John had to urge himself smile back as he accepted the offered snack. Ray's comment had surprised him; Ray was always so genuine, he wasn't the kind to say something like that if he hadn't meant it. So maybe he meant it. That wasn't.... entirely impossible, was it? Ray was a nice guy, they'd had some good times. So maybe Ray actually gave a shit. John couldn't deny that he liked that thought. In the back corner of his mind, John continued to process his morning. His father he was used to - he could deal with that well enough. He was holding on to the hope that eventually the man would decide that the fact there was no food in the house was a problem for him, and get some. Or rather, have John's mother get some. If he didn't... much as John hated to think of it, there were other ways for him to ensure he didn't starve. And he was no stranger to employing them if he really had to. But there had only been a very few times in his life that things had gotten that bad. Hopefully his father would go back to work before then. Either way, John knew what he had to do. The thing he didn't know how to deal with, though, was James. More specifically, what was he supposed to do with his feelings for the man now that he no longer thought he didn't stand a chance with him. It wasn't exactly the most straight forward sort of relationship, should they have one. Not that Moriarty could possibly be interested in such a thing; he'd lose his job, to begin with. No, John was certain that if they ever did anything more than kiss in James's car, it would be the no strings attached sort of thing. John fell as easily into conversation with Ray as he ever had, and for the time being he was able to not think about the last few weeks and all the whispering darkness that had crept into his mind. By the time they were walking down the hallway to English, John was feeling fairly normal again. It was refreshing. They had nearly reached their classroom when the door swung open, and the woman that stepped out of it made them all come to a halt. Her eyes swept over them before she turned and left, shoes clicking with every step. Peter gave a low whistle.   
"Hot damn," he muttered appreciatively, eyes flicking to the door of Moriarty's classroom then locking back onto the retreating woman. "Is that Mr M's wife? Shit man..."  
"It wouldn't surprise me. She's just as terrifying as he is," Mike replied.   
"It would surprise me," John replied, despite the flush of jealousy that had run through him at Peter's suggestion. This was gone as quickly as it had come, to be replaced with sudden biting nervousness when he realised what he'd said. The others turned to him, having to tear their eyes away from suit lady - with clear reluctance - to do so. "Why?" John's mouth opened as he scrambled for an answer, but Charlie beat him to it.   
"Have you seen the guy?" she asked, turning from watching the retreating woman to walk towards the classroom door. "He's about as straight as I am." And with that she tugged open the door and stepped inside. Mike and Peter made little 'oh' noises and followed her, but Mary lingered. She was looking at John curiously, a tiny smirk on her lips.   
"You can't seem to take your eyes off her, John," she commented. Keeping his expression neutral, John raised an eyebrow at her. Okay, so maybe he'd been staring a little. But only because he was pretty sure they'd just seen the female equivalent of the man he'd spent a good portion of that morning kissing.   
"Is that what you're into now?" Mary continued, tipping her head to the side. She took a step closer to him. "Explains why you brushed me off. But I can be like that if you want me to." John sidestepped around her, heading for the classroom door.   
"I don't want you to be like anything, Mary," he replied. John didn't see the pout she aimed at him, or the flash of a smile that replaced it when she realised he wasn't looking. He was already looking across at James as he headed to his own desk. John forgot almost immediately that he had intended to search for any sign of who that woman had been to the teacher. He was distracted by the light in James's eyes, the way he was nearly vibrating with energy. When their eyes met, Moriarty gave him a brilliant smile that very nearly had John making some kind of embarrassing noise in front of the whole class. John's lips pulled up in response, and for a moment he forgot they were surrounded for people. The whole world could have just ended around them and he wouldn't have even noticed. He'd never seen James look so vibrant. So caught up in this was he that John was almost grateful when Mary walked in and brushed against him. Almost. Mainly he was irritated that she'd touched him in front of James. The sharp look that came into Moriarty's face when she did so was gone the moment it came, but it stole John's breath all the same. He had no idea how he'd react if he had been the subject of that look. Mary can't have noticed it, because she was moving to her seat as though nothing had happened. James's easy grin from earlier was back, and John wished he could have photographed it. The other students were noticing too, though; nudging each other and muttering back and forth. John settled into his seat in time to hear Peter asking Charlie if she was sure he hadn't just slept with that chick.   
"One, keep your brain out of the gutter for five minutes," Charlie replied, rolling her eyes. "And two, yeah, I'm sure. Just look at the guy."  
"So he's wearing a suit, that doesn't mean -"  
"Honey. I never said wearing anything is a tell. Plenty of straight guys wear suits. But that guy there? Queer as a three dollar bill."  
John had to try very hard to look disinterested in their conversation. Fortunately he didn't have long to do so, because Moriarty was rocking on his heels and clearing his throat.  
"I know your personal lives are all very interesting, but if you could please quiet down I would like to start the lesson."  
The chatter tittered out a lot quicker than it ever did in other classes - Mr M had that affect on his students. Even so, a few of John's classmates were still swapping meaningful looks as James went on to explain the lesson he had planned for the day. He managed about five minutes of this before he made a noise of irritation and put down his whiteboard marker. James turned around, eyeing the class.   
"All right, I know that you are all still focused on the woman that you saw leaving my classroom earlier, and I clearly need to actually state the fact that I find this to be extremely impolite. Now please, attention on me, if you could."   
"Who was she, sir?" a voice from the back piped up. James gave a weary sigh.   
"If it should become relevant to the lesson, I will let you know. For the moment, let's just continue shall we?" Moriarty replied. There was a kind of amused smile playing over his lips that John had seen plenty of times after class, but never during it. He really was in a good mood. Jealousy flared up in John's gut again as he wondered who the woman had been to cause that. It was a moment or two more before it occured to him that maybe James was in a good mood because of what had passed between them that morning. John hurriedly ducked his head to hide a smile, even as he told himself that was ridiculous. 

James finished explaining the homework assignment he'd been questioned on about three times already. He wasn't even moved to sigh wearily in the way he usually would have when yet another hand was raised. Very little could have happened to improve his morning, and so very little was going to be enough to ruin his good mood.   
"Sir, was that lady your missus?" the owner of the raised hand asked. Moriarty didn't respond, wondering how it was that these kids kept missing the fact he wasn't about to give out facts about his personal life.   
"Just because I've worked out how it's going to affect my learning, Mister. I keep wondering about 'er and it's distractin' me," continued the student matter of factly. James couldn't have kept the smirk from his face if he'd wanted to.   
"Well I'm afraid what distracts you is not my problem, Mr Walen. However, I can assure you that she is not my wife," James replied. His eyes flicked to John entirely of their own accord, then hurriedly back again when he realised his slip. The moment that their eyes did meet for was long enough to make James's stomach fill with butterflies. No one had done that to him since he was in high school himself. There really was something special about John.  
"Was she, like, your sister or something then?" Walen insisted.   
"No, she's not my sister. Enough of the questions now, off to your next class," James replied, working to keep the usual facade he wore around work. He'd clearly been acting different enough to the way he usually did in class for his students to notice, ad he didn't want any of their questions getting back to the other staff. Walen seemed to consider pushing the issue, then thought better of it and joined the rest of the class in their procession out the door. James nodded after them, turning to where John was taking far more time than he really needed to packing his bag and waving his friends off.   
"Just go Charlie, I'll meet you there. Get me a seat," John was saying. Charlie shrugged, looking defeated. "Fine. Why you want to hang around in here I don't get."  
"I don't, I'm just..." he waved his hands at the tangle of things on his desk. "Gotta fit it all in." Charlie chuckled and shook her head.   
"Nerd. Bring less stuff next time, John," she teased, picking up one of the bigger books and turning away. "I'll carry this. See you there," Charlie added, and then finally they were alone. James's heart did a little leap in his chest that again reminded him of being younger than he was. John looked across at him and gave him a shy little smile.   
"Don't you have a class?" James asked as he walked over to John's desk.  
"It's not a very good one," John replied, tossing his things haphazardly into his bag without looking at it.   
"You'd still ought to go," James countered. John grinned, zipping his bag closed. "Oh, I'm going to. In a moment. Got something to do first."  
James raised an eyebrow, leaning against the side of John's desk. "Oh? And what was that, then?" he asked.   
"Make sure my English teacher is free after class this afternoon. I've got some homework I need help with," John replied, tongue flicking out across his lips.   
"Oh, certainly," James replied, hurriedly burying the tinge of dismay that lit his tone. "What homework are you struggling with?"  
John's smile grew teasing and he shook his head. "None." He took the lapels of James's jacket in both hands and closed the distance between them, lips hovering so they were only barely not touching. Then he pulled James in the last tiny space by the grip on his suit and kissed him. James's hands fell to John's hips and the thought once again struck him that John made him behave like a teenager in love for the first time. At his age he was supposed to be embarrassed by things like that. But he just wasn't. 

"What took you so long?" Charlie whispered when John eventually slipped into his seat beside her. John shrugged, watching the teacher's turned back as he waited to see if he'd successfully gotten in without being noticed.   
"You know how much shit I carry around with me," he murmured back, pulling his book out and opening it to a spare page.   
"And yet usually you just chuck the whole lot in there on top of itself," she pointed out.   
"And then it pokes into my back. Why do you even care?" John demanded lowly. Charlie paused, at when John turned to her he realised how taken aback she was by that response.   
"John," Charlie whispered, looking him directly in the eye. "Do you seriously need me to tell you this? Because - I mean, if I'd realised..." she paused, putting her hand on John's arm. "You're my best friend. I love you. Of course I care."  
John had been ready to hear that and brush it off. He'd been certain he wouldn't believe her this time. But when she said it it came out so earnest and heart-felt that he couldn't immediately write it off. And the longer he looked at her open expression and the longer he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. He'd only just come to accept that none of them really gave a toss about him, but... shit. What if he was wrong? Ray this morning, and Charlie now... shit.   
"I..." John began, mind reeling. The world that had seemed to be falling down around him was rapidly turning out not to be after all. Walls he'd thought were crumbling to dust were suddenly whole again.   
"Miss Bradbury, if you could please keep whatever personal business you have with Mr Watson out of the classroom," their statistics teacher abruptly interrupted, calling the attention of the whole class towards them. John was still sort of staring like an idiot, trying to sort what was really going on from what he'd just been telling himself was going on.   
"He's not feeling very well," Charlie said quickly. "Perhaps I ought to take him to the nurse."  
"If he really is unwell, I'm sure Watson can get to the nurse himself. I trust you've all done my assigned homework, I need you to hand that in now please."  
Chairs scraped back and papers rustled as everyone started to search out their homework. The teacher was watching them with an irritated expression, so John pulled out his own and handed it to the girl who was picking them up from their row. Then he turned to Charlie again.   
"I've been a classic fool, haven't I?"  
Charlie smiled a little, giving his arm a squeeze where her hand still lay on it. "A right moron," she agreed. "Not to worry, we'll forgive you."  
"Bradbury, don't make me tell you again," the teacher sighed, tone heavy with exasperation. Charlie rolled her eyes to John and turned forwards, fixing the teacher with a blank stare. Before long he was dropping his gaze and turning away, clearly uncomfortable. John ran his fingers slowly through his hair. Nothing about today was going the way he'd expected it to.


	31. With a Little Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I am so tired. But I did a double NaNo! That's a 100,000 + word novel, guys! And now I'm sick. Oh well, here's a chapter! Full of more thinly veiled references! And tropes. Please don't hate me because I don't update enough!

"He doesn't blame you, you know," Charlie said, apropos of nothing, as they walked down the hallway after class later.  
"What?" John replied, mind leaping over any number of people Charlie could be referring to. He came to a rest on one person just before she spoke again, and immediately almost drowned in guilt.  
"Maury. He doesn't blame you for breaking up with him. He knows you guys were never meant to get involved like that. He says he doesn't want you feeling like it's your fault you guys didn't work."  
John blinked a couple of times. Of course it was his fault.  
"How do you know that?" he asked, trying not to let the sudden nauseous churning of his gut show on his face.  
"We've been hanging out," Charlie explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He's okay. I think it's important for you to know that."  
John hesitated, looking down at his own feet. "Thank you, Charlie. But... it was my fault. Wasn't it?"  
"No," she replied immediately. "And I'm not just saying that because I think that's what you need to hear. It wasn't your fault. We can't control who fancies us any more than we can control who we fancy. Okay? You both agreed there wasn't supposed to be any feelings involved and then feelings got involved. It's nobody's fault."  
John sighed, tipping his head to the side to bump it against Charlie's shoulder.  
"I'm sorry I've been such an idiot," he muttered. Charlie put her arm around his shoulders and gave him a light squeeze.  
"It's not you, John. Everyone goes through low spots. I should have done something earlier. I just thought that maybe you needed to get through it on your own. I'm sorry."  
John pulled his head off her shoulder to look up at her, expression disbelieving. "You're sorry? Why on earth - Charlie, you are the last person who should be apologising. I'm the one who's been buggering around thinking nobody loves me."  
Charlie chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder.  
"Well, it's about time you were wrong about something. Time to go back to being right though, yeah?"  
John hesitated for a moment, having no choice but to acknowledge the fact that he hadn't felt this light hearted since... well, since the last time he'd hung out with Charlie without thinking that she secretly hated him. He really as an idiot, wasn't he?  
"Yeah," he agreed finally, giving Charlie an honest smile. 

James was just about getting ready to wrap up his class when his cell phone began to vibrate in the drawer of his desk, making a loud rumbling noise in the relative quiet of the class room. He frowned, quickly pulling the desk open and retrieving his phone from it. The number of the caller was blocked, but he had a distinct feeling he knew who it was none the less. A flutter of something between nervousness and excitement attacked his chest, and for a moment he considered excusing himself to answer the call. But that really would just be terribly impolite to his class, and they were coming up to mid terms. They needed all the help they could get. He quickly silenced his phone and turned it off to prevent any further interruptions, frantically hoping the caller would leave a message, and shut his phone back into his desk drawer again.  
"Sorry about that," he said to the room at large. "Not quite as silent as advertised, it appears. Anyway, as I was saying... your reviews on the Frost and Poe passages are due by the end of the week, and if you have any questions about your anthologies before mid terms by all means let me know. I remind you that my email address is in the front of your course handout should you need anything outside of school hours. Any final questions?"  
One hand shot up immediately, a girl with long hair seated front middle of the class, and James only barely managed to restrain his comment - something along the lines of 'yes, Miss-I-have-an-opinion-about-everything?' - which alarmed him, because on a normal day he would have had no trouble keeping this thought to himself. Clearly the events of the day were getting to him in a different way than he'd expected. Not that he was about to complain - not right then, and not ever. Instead he just smiled and nodded to the student with the raised hand.  
"I was just wondering when we were going to do the Dylan Thomas poem in the course book."  
"That's ahead of where I've asked the class to read to, Miss Dartford, and is not going to be in the mid terms so you don't need to worry about it yet. I promise you we will cover it exactly when it becomes relevant to our course," James replied, letting his hands slide into the pockets of his suit trousers. "Now, will that be all?" No other hands were raised. Although, as had been the case in all his classes so far today, more than a few looks were exchanged at the relaxed smile on his face and his total lack of reproaching Dartford for reading ahead. He hadn't thought he was _that_ much of an arsehole in class usually. But one day of him being in a good mood and suddenly it was like every student he had thought he'd been body swapped.  
"In that case, you're excused. Try not to cause too much havoc in the halls," he almost drawled, watching as the class hurriedly began to pack their things as though if they took too long to evacuate his classroom he might change his mind and keep them in. Odd mentality that, and yet one pretty much all high school aged kids seemed to have. He couldn't fathom where they'd gotten it from. As the room emptied James stepped back behind his desk, settling into his seat and opening his planner, looking at what he needed to have ready for his class after lunch. It wasn't very long before he noticed the lingering presence near his desk and looked up to find one of his students waiting quietly to gain his attention. He folded his hands over his planner and looked up at her with a polite smile.  
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.  
"I-it's just..." she trailed off, appearing to take a breath and then pull her lips into a smile and meet his gaze straight on. "Well, my parents are a little concerned about my grades, Mr M. I was wondering if there was any chance of me seeing you after hours?" she asked, batting her eyelashes a little. James had never understood why women did that - were they attempting to look as if they had something in their eye?  
"Of course, Miss Masters. Would lunch breaks work for you? I would only take up one day a week, I understand you probably have things you'd rather be doing than sitting in a class room with me at lunch," James replied, glancing down at his planner and flipping backward to a weekly calendar.  
"Oh, I don't," Masters replied quickly. "But I was actually hoping for after school."  
James shook his head, lifting his gaze to find her peering over his desk to eye his planner. "I'm afraid I already have a student I'm working with after school hours, Miss Masters. I could -"  
"There's nothing written down after school on there," she pointed out, tipping her head to the side slightly as she caught his eyes once more. "Are you sure you couldn't... accommodate me?"  
James blinked at her a couple of times. "I don't need to write this particular appointment down to remember it, but yes, I could work something out. Which day would work for you? Again, I wouldn't want to take more than one of your afternoons a week."  
 _Wouldn't want to give you more than one of John's afternoons a week, and I'm only giving you that because I sort of have to,_ James added silently. Masters fluttered her eyebrows again, and James had to wonder if she knew what that looked like.   
"Oh, any day will work for me, sir. I can stay every day, in fact."  
"As I said, Miss Masters, I have an - I have other students that I see after class. Will Thursdays work for you?"  
Masters bit her lip and seemed to consider. "I suppose. My parents are impatient people, though... what about today?"  
"I'm afraid I already have plans for this afternoon," James replied, trying to keep his expression neutral. It was proving quite difficult to keep the smug little smile off his lips just thinking about those plans. Masters' eyes seemed somehow to get larger as she looked at him, tugging at her lower lip with her teeth.  
"Oh, are you sure?"  
James arched an eyebrow at her, beginning to get a little irritated by her insistence now. Was it really that important to her?  
"I'm certain. And I'm also certain that one afternoon a week will be perfectly sufficient to catch you up with whatever it is that you're struggling with. After our first meeting on Thursday, if you still don't think that's the case, we can reevaluate. Will that be all, Miss Masters?"  
Masters stuck her lower lip out a bit, but it seemed she finally understood that she was not just going to snap her fingers and get her way here.  
"I guess. Thank you, Mr M."  
"Not at all. Goodbye," James replied, putting a little more emphasis on that than was strictly necessary and letting his eyes flick to the door. Masters simply smiled sweetly at him and turned toward it.  
"I'll see you on Thursday," she said as she left. The moment the door had swung shut behind her James was grabbing for his phone out of the drawer like a child on Christmas. He depressed the power button, heart rate kicking up as he waited with bated breath for the alert that he had a voicemail message. 

Just before they parted ways for their final lesson of the day, John caught hold of Charlie's forearm. She turned to look at him, a questioning expression on her face.  
"Tell me I'm not dreaming," he said. She smiled.  
"You're not dreaming." After a moment, she tacked on, "In what dream have you ever suffered through an entire day of school?"  
John had to smile at that, and the tension that had gathered in his shoulders since he'd started entertaining this possibility about forty minutes ago eased.  
"Thanks, Charlie."  
"Any time," she replied, throwing the arm he'd released around his shoulders and giving him a fierce hug. "Ya moron."  
John laughed, and they went down their individual paths to their respective classes. John had calculus, and while he managed to pay enough attention to get the gist of the lesson down, his heart just wasn't in it. His mind kept wandering back to everything that had happened that day. And to Charlie's assurance that it hadn't all been a dream.  
This was really happening. All of it. Sorting things out with his friends. Maury not hating him - though when exactly John had started believing that he did, John couldn't be sure - even if he did still feel in the wrong about all of that. And James. James, who he was going to see in forty minutes. Thirty. Twenty five. Ten... 

John must have run through the halls from his last class or developed some way to teleport, because he arrived at James' classroom what could only have been moments after the final bell had finished ringing. James was already stood next to his desk, watching the door with anticipation building exponentially in his stomach when it swung inwards. John walked in, eyes bright and a shy smile on his face as he closed the door behind himself, turning the simple tumbler lock. The dozen plus things James had decided they needed to discuss left his head when John crossed the space between them in as few steps as was humanly possible, hands finding James' hips. There was a moment of silence where neither of them moved. The look in John's face said he was checking he still had permission. And the answer in James' was that he never needed to ask. Then John surged forward, initiating a kiss that wasn't the kind of desperate their second one had been, but wasn't slow or gentle either. There was a kind of plea in this kiss that James almost fancied was John searching for confirmation that this was happening in the real world, no dream or fantasy. And James gave into it entirely, his hands encircling John's waist and pulling him closer. Because he needed that same confirmation just as much as John did. The sensation of tucking his arms underneath the base of a school bag was not one that was familiar to him, but he was sure he could get used to it. John pressed in closer, fingers curling firmly into the fabric of James' suit. In response, Moriarty let his lips fall apart, and he swore he could feel John's heart begin to race alongside his own as the younger took a sharp breath in and deepened the kiss. He hadn't realised he'd closed his eyes, but if this was the trade off James was only too happy to keep them that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and there's some serious talkings coming up.


End file.
